I Spy a Family Reunion
by Mandelene
Summary: Arthur and Francis went from being daredevil agents working abroad to being the guardians of twin boys. Now their next mission may prove to be their most trying one yet as they take on Europe and endure a Kirkland family reunion. It appears family can get just as messy as crime-fighting.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! This story was requested by **icicle223** on Tumblr. It's a sequel to another fic of mine called "I Spy a Family," but you should still be able to enjoy it even if you haven't read the original, so no worries. I'm really excited to finally share it with you guys because it's finals week for me, and it's a relief to be able to post something despite the madness at school.

As always, please leave a review and let me know what you think! I'd really appreciate it. Thanks for being awesome!

* * *

It's quiet. Too quiet.

Arthur leans against the stiff, black leather seat of his assigned patrol car and waits to be dispatched. The window is rolled down, yet it does nothing to make him feel less stuffy—all it does is cause his allergies to flare up from the pollen—and, dear god, why is it so quiet? Apparently, no one is committing crimes on a Saturday morning in the suburbia of Connecticut, which isn't surprising, frankly. It's a contentedly serene town. Everyone is either at home with family or spending this lovely sunny day at the park.

The silence is unnerving. Having spent more years than he'd like to count working as a federal agent with Francis, this change of pace has been shocking for them both. It's been three years since they started working on a traditional, everyday police force, and Arthur still can't believe the majority of his job now consists of dishing out speeding tickets and pulling over intoxicated drivers on the highway.

This is what he wanted—to settle down—so why does his heart continue to ache with desire for the good, ol' days of stopping drug traffickers, protecting presidents and prime ministers, and working on counterintelligence missions from the most secretive hideouts on Earth? He misses the adrenaline rush—the exhilaration of constantly having to be on his toes.

Now he's wasting away over here and becoming nothing but an old fart! Granted, he's not young and spry anymore—oh he'd give anything to have his youth back—and it's about time he settled down anyway. This is what's best for him. He can't live life on the edge of his seat forever, especially not when he has two young boys to raise now. They're only eleven, and that means he can't go running around on missions across the globe for months on end like he used to. Slowing down is part of life—a necessary step needed in order to age and mature.

In the middle of his brooding, his phone rings. It's Francis.

"Hello?"

" _Mon amour_ , don't panic but—"

Oh, how wonderful. This is what he gets for complaining about the solitude.

"What do you mean 'don't panic?' You can't begin a conversation like that and expect me to remain calm!" he growls, heart rate already quickening. Is everything okay with the boys? Was there a fire or a tornado or a flash flood? Did someone get hurt?

"Alfred snuck out of the house. He must have taken his bike because it's not in the yard," Francis continues, not paying any mind to his little outburst.

"Snuck out? How? He's grounded!"

"He couldn't have gone far. He's probably down by the river."

Arthur clicks his tongue and sighs. He's tempted to put bars on the boy's window and keep him locked in his room until he's an adult. He has an atrocious habit of wandering off, especially when he knows he's in trouble. Just last week, they'd received a call from Alfred's sixth-grade teacher regarding his disruptive behavior in class. He talks during the lesson, passes notes, and hardly ever even looks up at the blackboard. He's only two days into his month-long punishment, and he's already rebelling again.

"Okay, I'll look for him," Arthur promises, rubbing his forehead. This is not the kind of adventure he had in mind.

"Thank you, _mon cher_. I'm sorry to bother you when you're working. Keep me updated," Francis says somberly before hanging up. It seems he's getting a little discouraged with disciplining the boy as well, and who can blame him? Alfred is well-versed in stirring up conflict.

Arthur turns on the ignition, adjusts his mirrors, and frowns. He has a young delinquent to catch.

He takes Francis's suggestion and searches the road by the river, and, as usual, the Frenchman's intuition turns out to be correct because he finds several bike tracks on the path cloaked under the canopy of summer-green trees.

After ten minutes of driving in a straight line, he spots a group of boys riding the bikes in question. Alfred is near the back of the group, and although the hood of his sweatshirt is pulled up over his head, Arthur knows it's him by his terrible, hunch-backed posture—he's been trying to get the boy to sit up straight for ages now. Plus, there's no mistaking that red, white, and blue bicycle.

Fully intending to embarrass the boy in order to teach him a lesson, Arthur switches on the flashing lights and ear-splitting siren of the patrol car, making a great racket. He picks up the little walkie-talkie that serves as his intercom and says in his most intimidating voice, "Young man in the dark blue sweater, pull over."

He hears Alfred groan, and the whole group of boys comes to a stop, genuinely believing Alfred is in trouble with law enforcement. They "ooh" and "ahh" as Arthur stops the patrol car, parks it, and steps out to deal with his mischievous son.

Alfred gets off his bike and holds it upright by its handles. He doesn't say a word as Arthur approaches him and pulls off his hood, revealing the boy's dirty blond hair and the cowlick perched atop it. He's as red as a cherry. Good.

"You're under arrest," Arthur says dryly. "Drop the bike and place your hands where I can see them."

"Dad," Alfred hisses, but he lets go of the bike nonetheless. A few of his fellow bikers stifle some snickers, catching on.

"You were speeding—and where is your helmet?" Arthur asks him as he takes the bike in his own hands. "Get into the car."

"But I—!"

" _Now_ , Alfred."

Alfred throws his hands up in defeat and storms his way over to the patrol car, looking like the unhappiest and most miserable boy in the world. He takes his spot at the passenger's side while Arthur stows his bike across the backseats, murmuring to himself about how he's never allowed to do anything fun and how he's going to live in the woods because it'd be better than always being bossed around.

"You're so humiliating," Alfred grumbles as a final note, hiding his flushed face behind his hands.

Arthur allows himself a triumphant smile, picks up his walkie-talkie again, and addresses the rest of the boys, "Carry on, lads. Don't run into any trouble."

Then, he returns to the driver's seat, spares Alfred a sidelong glance, and mutters, "You snuck out of the house, made your papa worry, and didn't even have the decency to let anyone know where you were going. Do you want me to have an aneurysm?"

Alfred raises his eyes, daring to look at him, and asks, "What's an aneurysm?"

"Something you'd best hope I don't have," Arthur fumes, driving toward home. "What has gotten into you? Have Papa and I been so awful to you that you feel the need to rebel? Is this a cry for help?"

"You don't get it," Alfred huffs, fidgeting in his seat.

"You're right, I don't. I've been trying to understand, Alfred, but you haven't given me any information to work with. You've been avoiding your papa and me… I want you to know we're here to help, no matter how big or small the problem may seem."

Naturally, Alfred doesn't appear to take any of his lecture to heart. If anything, it just feels as though Arthur is watching Alfred walk farther and farther away from him.

"Did someone say something to you at school or hurt you in any way?"

"No, Dad. It's nothing like that."

"What is it, then?" All Arthur wants is a proper answer to a simple question.

"It's nothing… I'm sorry for sneaking out."

The boy is just trying to placate him, and Arthur knows this, but harassing him for a real answer now will only make things worse, he fears. He has to try to be patient and hope the truth will come out eventually.

They reach the house they've called home for three years now. Francis just trimmed the lawn yesterday, despite Arthur's insistence that it was too hot to be doing such laborious work. He was right, of course, and Francis came back inside with the beginnings of heat stroke topped off with a painful sunburn.

"This is your stop," Arthur says, torn between giving Alfred a reassuring smile or a stern frown.

"Okay," Alfred whispers, but he doesn't move.

"Is everything all right?"

Alfred turns to him, hands in his lap, and says, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course you can, my boy."

"Did you want to be a dad?"

Well, that's one question Arthur wasn't prepared for. He takes a breath, sits back, and stares at the horrifically picturesque neighborhood they live in. It's everything anyone could ever ask for—it's safe, the people are pleasant (for the most part), the school district is one of the best in the state, there's room for the boys to run and play, and the list goes on.

Yet…

Arthur touches the badge on his uniform and feels like a part of him is missing. He left it behind somewhere during his last mission.

"I'm not sure what I wanted, to be entirely honest. I'm not sure what I expected either. I didn't know what being a father meant, and I'm still learning. I'm new to this in many ways."

"Oh…"

"Why do you ask?"

Alfred shrugs his shoulders at him and lies. "I don't know."

There's something deeper going on here, Arthur is certain.

"I'm sure Papa has lunch waiting on the table," he notes, hoping the prospect of food will bolster the child's spirit.

"Yeah. See you later," Alfred murmurs, getting out of the car this time.

Arthur nods and goes around to the back to hand the boy his bike. He gives him firm instructions to relinquish it to Francis, who will be monitoring his bike usage from now on. They don't need another scare like this in the future, and taking away Alfred's form of transportation seems like a good first step to keeping the boy from disappearing again.

He watches Alfred go inside and wants to stay a little longer, but then his walkie-talkie awakens, and he's dispatched to handle a car accident on the highway.

* * *

"Ah, you're finally home. Do me a favor and fold the laundry, would you?

Arthur rolls the ache out of his shoulders and wonders when he went from being a bachelor that tracked down the most wanted men and women in existence to being Mr. Mom. He can fold a shirt in under five seconds, wash the dishes while simultaneously helping with homework, and can tell a darn good bedtime story, but he can't run five kilometers like he used to. His left leg never did fully recover from that time he was shot in Florida.

He puts down his things and goes about finishing the chores Francis has divided up between them. It seems there's always something that needs doing, and Arthur can't recall how long it's been since the two of them have had the chance to sit down and talk one-to-one.

It's an odd thing—he doesn't know what to make of their relationship anymore. They're partners but now they're also parents, which changes everything. They are more than just lovers, yet Francis seems more and more like a stranger. Where did the days of sipping tea together and complaining about politics go? What happened to the cheap wine and awful romance movies and cheesy dates? Where did the independence—the liberty of making the calls in their own lives—go?

"I left a plate for you in the microwave," Francis says, and it's like he's nothing more than an acquaintance—someone whom Arthur can say "good evening" to and nothing else. Even the tone of his voice seems so far away and cold.

"Thank you."

"Mmm."

"How was everything today? Aside from Alfred's brief getaway, of course."

Francis blinks wearily, worn out. Has he been like this for a while? How has Arthur not noticed this? Is he unhappy? Is he going to leave him with the boys?

"It was fine. Your mother called and said to reach out to her in the morning."

Arthur frowns. It's never a good sign when his family is trying to get in touch with him. They must want something. "My mother? Did she say why she needed to speak to me?"

"Something about how upset she is that she hasn't had a chance to meet with the boys yet. I think she wants you to visit over the summer."

He has to snort at that. The only time he'll go home is when he's sent over in a coffin. "Really now? I don't think that's going to happen."

"Why not? She said she was looking forward to a reunion. She wants your brothers to visit as well."

Oh, how precious. Prior to the adoption of the boys, his mother never extended him an invitation to come and stay with her. All they did was exchange Christmas and birthday cards—nothing more, nothing less—for the past ten years.

"Well, there can only be one explanation—she's gone mad."

"Don't say that. She's trying to reconnect."

"I don't want to reconnect, and certainly not with my siblings."

"That's a shame… You should consider yourself blessed to have a family."

Ah, so he's playing that card again. Most of Francis's family is either dead or has intentionally kept out of touch over age-old feuds, and he's always insisting Arthur do something about his broken bonds with his brothers before it's too late—before they all die in tragic accidents or of illness and leave Arthur without anyone to hate.

"I wouldn't use 'blessed' in this context."

"You're all adults now. Surely you can get along for a short while."

"Adults? I think not. You don't have the slightest idea as to what menaces they are."

"No, but I'd still like to get to know them. It's about time I met your family," Francis points out, suddenly looking more energized. There's a glimmer of mischief in his eyes—playful and young in every sense. It's like they're meeting for the very first time again.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Francis shrugs his shoulders benignly and sways from side to side as a smile creeps across his lips. "We need to find out if your mother approves."

Arthur snorts in derision. "As if I care what she thinks."

"You should care, at least a little."

"Well, I don't."

"You do, you just haven't realized it yet," Francis insists, still looking far too happy for comfort. "Come on, Arthur... Please, call her tomorrow. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to get away for a while and spend a few weeks with your family. We could all use a break once the boy's finish the school term."

No, Arthur refuses to be tricked into spending a chunk of his summer in such dreadful company. If Francis wants to go on vacation, they can travel to Las Vegas or Maui.

"Think about it, okay? At least promise me that."

"Okay," Arthur pauses for dramatic effect, and then huffs, "I've thought about it."

Francis chuckles softly and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. "I won't make you do anything you don't want to do. It's your family and your decision."

"Don't do that. I _hate_ it when you do that."

"Do what?"

Arthur scowls and steadies a baleful look at him. "Don't pretend to be nonchalant about all of this and think it'll make me change my mind. I won't be falling for your reverse psychology today."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Francis says with a smirk before marching up the stairs to put the boys' clothes in their dressers.

Arthur stands in the empty laundry room for a while and groans. He's already getting mental images of rolling plains and the boys running around in front of his mother's old cottage. Maybe there is a part of him deep, deep, _deep_ down that misses home. Perhaps it's the piece he's been missing—the last part of himself that he's never truly reconciled with.

Damn Francis for putting the idea into his head. The man does these things on purpose. All he has to do is plant the seed of a thought to get what he wants. He knows Arthur's weakness—his tendency to be over-analytical—and uses it to his advantage more often than Arthur cares to admit.

When he goes to bed that night with Francis, he makes sure to have his back to him, making it clear he's not going to concede to this battle without a bit of a struggle first. Francis tries to get him to relent by winding his arms around his middle and pressing their bodies against one another, and the man's warmth seeps into Arthur's skin and bones, setting him at ease. Nonetheless, Arthur doesn't acknowledge the caresses, and instead, slams his eyes shut and inwardly yells at himself to go asleep and ignore the man.

It works somewhat because before he knows it, he's peeling his eyes open to the early morning light of another day, and he can hear the boys stomping past the bedroom door, a signal they're up to no good.

He disentangles himself from Francis' arms, taking care not to wake him, and saunters out into the hallway to investigate. He's covering a yawn behind his hand when he sees Matthew standing at the foot of the stairs with tears in his eyes.

"What's going on here?" Arthur asks, heart clenching with pain as a sob escapes Matthew's mouth. "Matthew, dear, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Matthew nods his head and throws himself against Arthur's chest, seeking reassurance as his sobs increase in pace and strength. "I tried to make you breakfast for you and Papa's anniversary."

Anniversary? Is it that day already? He pales as he imagines how upset Francis will be when he finds out he's forgotten about their three-year anniversary. He'll have to listen to him gripe for weeks about how ungrateful he is and how he's never appreciated.

"It hurts," Matthew hiccups against Arthur's shirt.

He snaps himself out of his train of thought to look at the bleeding cut on Matthew's palm, and he sets aside all of his other worries for the time being. "How did this happen?"

"I was trying to cut off the leafy parts of the strawberries for the French toast."

Arthur clicks his tongue, brushes Matthew's hair back with one hand, and guides him over to the counter in the bathroom. He sits him down and searches around for the hydrogen peroxide in the medicine cabinet, still berating himself for forgetting about today when Matthew had the sense to remember.

"It's all right. It looks worse than it is," he promises as he wets a washcloth with the hydrogen peroxide and presses it against the wound. "You know you aren't allowed to use knives without permission."

Matthew sniffles in remorse and wails, "I wanted it to be a surprise!"

"You didn't have to go through all of this trouble, my boy."

Just as Arthur is finishing up cleaning the cut and placing a bandage over it, Alfred comes bursting into the bathroom with a mini first-aid kit from the basement in his hands.

"Matt! Are you okay? I have the stuff!"

Arthur smiles down at his dramatic son and then at his injured one and says, "All fixed. No more surprises, agreed?"

Before the boys can respond, a fourth person enters the room, and this time, it's Francis. His hair is all over the place and his feet are still in slippers when he asks, "What's going on?"

"Matthew wanted to prepare a breakfast for us for our anniversary," Arthur explains, one hand rubbing circles into Matthew's shoulder.

Francis's reaction to this news isn't all that different from what Arthur's was a few minutes ago. His eyes widen, his complexion turns a shade lighter, and he tries to act completely natural but fails.

"Ah, _Mathieu_ , that wasn't necessary. Thank you for the thought," Francis finally murmurs, embracing the child. "You're too good to us sometimes."

At this, Alfred rolls his eyes and shouts, "Hey! What about me?"

Francis deposits a sloppy kiss to Alfred's cheek, causing the boy to squirm and exclaim over and over again about how he's too big to be kissed and that he's not a baby anymore.

"You didn't forget about our anniversary, did you?" Arthur asks, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

"W-What? N-No! Of course not! How could I forget? I've had this day planned for—"

"Because I forgot," Arthur admits, ruffling each of the boys' mops of blond hair.

Francis lets out a sigh and then laughs, shoulders shaking. "Of course we both forgot the most important day in our relationship."

They're both walking disasters. That's why they belong together.

"Let's see if some of that breakfast Matthew made can be salvaged," Arthur suggests, brushing past Francis and stopping for just a second to give him a barely perceptible, affectionate nudge in the side before heading out into the hallway again.

* * *

Despite having closed the door to the bedroom, Arthur can hear the sound of the rest of the family gathered around just outside, inquisitive ears trying to listen in. Don't they know better than to eavesdrop? Francis, clearly, is uncivilized, but he thought he'd taught the boys to be polite.

"Why do we have to stay quiet?" he hears Alfred whisper.

"Because your father is going to call his mother."

"He has a mother?" Alfred asks, and Matthew snickers from beside him. "Can I talk to her?"

"No," Francis mutters. "Keep your voice down."

Arthur shakes his head at the conniving trio and pulls the bedroom door open to glare at all of them. "Out, right this second!"

Three pairs of eyes widen at the sight of him. The culprits know to be flustered and ashamed for being caught because they all rise to their full height and go running off in opposite directions.

Honestly… All he wants is a moment of privacy.

He clutches the stationary phone in his hand and sighs heavily, nervous. What is he supposed to say? Are they expected to catch up on everything they've neglected to talk about all of these years? Or can they be detached and cold as always toward one another?

He picks up his calling card, sits on the edge of the bed, and dials the number he wishes would stop plaguing him.

The line rings five times before there's an answer.

"Hello?"

Involuntarily, Arthur's throat constricts, leaving him to sputter over his own breath as he struggles to say something. "Mum? It's Arthur."

To say Mrs. Kirkland is overjoyed is a severe understatement. She makes a series of rapid-fire exclamations and thanks the lord that Arthur hasn't completely dismissed her existence and has finally taken the time to reach out to her. "I spoke to Francis the other day—you barely ever mention him in the letters you've sent, but he seems like a lovely man. As for Alfred and Matthew, it's a travesty they haven't met their grandmother yet! You must bring them over on holiday."

Hearing Francis being described as a "lovely man" makes him choke on the air in his lungs. "I'm not certain it would be—"

"July would be best," his mother interrupts, not giving him a chance to argue. "I can have everything arranged at a moment's notice though, and you needn't worry about imposing all of the sudden… My first grandchildren! I must say, I didn't think I'd live to see the day. I had expected Patrick or Allistor to have children first, of course, and so you can imagine my surprise when you sent me that letter a few years ago announcing the adoption. I'm happy for you."

He frowns and his face becomes uncomfortably hot from the amount of attention and praise that's being showered on him. He doesn't want to be congratulated or exalted by his family. His decisions have had nothing to do with them, and he doesn't feel as though they deserve to share their outlook on how things have turned out, regardless of whether or not that outlook is positive.

"Speaking of Allistor, he's been asking about you—misses you quite a bit, I daresay. I know he would enjoy getting to meet the twins as well, so you absolutely _must_ bring them over for a visit."

"I don't—"

"Well, it's settled, then. Isn't it? Just pick a date, and I'll inform everyone else."

Arthur slouches over and feels the need to groan. He can't hide the boys from his family forever, can he? The same goes for Francis, he supposes. If two weeks is all it'll take to get everyone off of his case about this issue, then so be it—he'll suffer through it for the greater good in the long-term. If Alfred and Matthew (for reasons that are beyond him) end up wanting to visit his family again in the future, he'll just buy them plane tickets and send them off along with Francis while he stays at home and burns the photographs he has of his brothers just for the heck of it.

"Okay. I'll speak to Francis and see what we come up with," Arthur surrenders, and he can feel himself sinking. He is the emotional equivalent of the Titanic right now. There's no possible way this will end well. He has officially crashed into the iceberg. Abandon ship.

After nearly an hour of small talk, the call finally ends, and he pulls at his hair, frustrated with how he's been manipulated into going through with what is likely going to be the worst vacation he has ever taken.

He relays the news to Francis, who immediately spills the secret to the boys by shouting, "We're going to Europe!"

"Yay!" Alfred shouts back, bouncing up and down with Matthew in tow.

"This doesn't mean your punishment is over," Arthur reminds the child, pointing a stern finger at him. "We can find chores for you to do in Europe."

"No fair!"

"Fair," Arthur retorts, shoulders sagging with regret already. Now they have to spend money on plane tickets and figure out what to pack. A vacation means two weeks out of his calendar will be rendered useless and unproductive, and when he comes back, he's going to have to make up for lost time.

"It'll be fun," Francis vows, looking pleased with himself. "You're doing the right thing."

Arthur finally lets out the groan he's been wanting to let out for a while now and grumbles, "I'm going upstairs. I don't want to hear about this trip again until the day of our departure, or else I'm changing my mind. Consider me agreeing to this as an anniversary gift."

"Your wish is my command," Francis says with a wan smile. "We should forget about our anniversary more often."

"What are we going to see in Europe?" Matthew asks.

Alfred hastily jumps in with his own question as well. "What are the people like?"

"Is there maple syrup in England?"

"Does everyone there talk with a funny accent like you?"

"Is the food as bad as Papa says it is?"

"Can I use words like 'bloody hell' and 'chav' when we get there?"

Arthur shuts his eyes for a full three seconds, turns himself around, and retreats back to the bedroom, hoping this might end up being an elaborate nightmare.

It's not.


	2. Chapter 2

' _We should have stayed home'_ Arthur thinks as soon as he steps away from the front door and launches himself into the outside world with one twin on his right and the other on his left.

Francis, who has been waiting for them in the loaded car for nearly an hour, has the nerve to ask what took them so long.

"Perhaps if you had been in charge of making sure the boys were packed and that the house was sufficiently clean before our departure, you'd know what took so bloody long. Someone had to take out the trash, feed the damned goldfish, do the dishes, vacuum, and lug all of our bags out here while you combed your hair for the fifteenth time this morning and polished the car!" Arthur says, muscles in his face contracting with displeasure.

Francis smiles condescendingly and leans one arm on the steering wheel, as relaxed and unbothered as ever. " _Oui_ , I am ungrateful and you could do better. Is that what you want me to say? We're going to miss our flight if you keep standing there."

He's about to give the Frenchman another earful as the boys clamber into the backseats and snap their seatbelts on, but then Matthew interrupts him by asking, "Is Gilly going to be okay without us for two weeks?"

Who the _hell_ is Gilly?

Francis jumps in to save him the trouble of dissecting this puzzle. "Your goldfish will be fine, _Mathieu_. Mrs. Johnson from next door has the spare key and promised to feed him and change his water."

"Gilly is a _girl_ , papa," Matthew reminds, a tad offended on the fish's behalf.

"Ah, that's what I meant. I'm sorry, _mon chou_."

Alfred snorts with barely suppressed laughter and asks, "How do you know it's a girl?"

"Alfred," Arthur warns him, sensing that no good will come out of this rabbit-hole of a conversation.

"I'm just asking a question."

"Now is not the time."

Matthew, still feeling the need to protect the reputation of his beloved pet, says, "I googled it, and it's obvious she's a girl."

"Maybe it doesn't want to have a gender given to it," Alfred argues, kicking his shoes off as he gets comfortable for what is bound to be a long trip to the airport. "You're stereotyping it. Maybe it wants to be gender fluid."

Arthur lifts a hand to his temple and looks up at the sky, praying for patience. "Do I want to know from where you've learned all of this, Alfred?"

"The internet," the boy replies, wiggling impatiently in his seat.

"You're forbidden from using the computer for a week."

"What? Why?"

Arthur slides into the passenger's seat and sighs, "Because I said so. It's clear I need to do a better job of monitoring the websites you've been visiting."

"But I didn't do anything wrong! What's wrong with people not wanting to be a girl or a boy?"

"Nothing's wrong with it, but we can discuss the complexities of gender when you're a bit older," Arthur explains before glaring at Francis to start the car. If they keep moving, all of this will be a little more tolerable.

The entire journey passes in a haze. Arthur hardly remembers getting to the airport, guzzling two large cups of poorly made yet atrociously expensive tea at the food court, escorting Alfred to the bathroom, getting hustled into buying sweets for the boys, and then lecturing them about the importance of not eating too many gummies at once.

He does, however, recall going through TSA in vivid detail. While taking off his shoes, it had occurred to him that, statistically speaking, the poor sods have a ninety-five percent _failure_ rate when it comes to actually stopping dangerous materials from getting onto planes. To their credit though, they always manage to catch all of the bottles of water passengers try to smuggle in.

The rest is fuzzy. He falls asleep during the flight and wakes up two hours later to the sound of Alfred talking to someone. The boy is sitting to his right while Matthew and Francis are located in the row directly in front of them.

He rubs his dry eyes and finds Alfred swiveled around in his seat and speaking animatedly with an elderly man in corduroy pants and thick glasses.

"Alfred, don't be a nuisance to the other passengers," Arthur commands him at once, reaching out a hand to yank the boy back.

Alfred ignores him and dodges his hand. "What's it like in the marines?"

Must the child defy him on everything?

The elderly gentleman's eyes twinkle as he says, "It's hard work, but what matters is that we're like family—we look out for one another."

"Alfred, sit back in your seat properly," Arthur orders again, making a second frugal attempt at restoring some semblance of control over his child.

"Oh, it's all right," the man says with an understanding grin in Arthur's direction. "I remember when my boy used to be Alfred's age. You always wonder when they'll grow up, and then they do, and you find yourself missing those days… Alfred, one of the most important parts of being a marine is knowing how to take orders from your superiors."

Alfred glowers at that last part and mumbles a half-hearted 'okay' before sitting down like Arthur asked him to.

"Thank you," Arthur mouths ever-so-softly at the man, making sure Alfred doesn't overhear.

The boy is silent for the rest of the flight.

* * *

It's drizzling and almost sunset when they land.

"English weather is the same as it's always been, I see," Francis bemoans grimly as they wait outside of the terminal for their ride. "Allistor is fashionably late."

"Of course he is," Arthur huffs.

"Are you sure you gave him the correct time and terminal number?"

"Positive…. There—he's coming. I see him."

Arthur braces himself against the man's presence and tries not to look too annoyed when Allistor comes traipsing over, red hair making him stick out like a sore thumb.

"Are these my new nephews? Come and give yer uncle a hug!" Allistor says with a hearty laugh, holding his arms out and caging the boys in his grip against their wills. Matthew is terrified around strangers, and Alfred… Well, Alfred has simply been unapproachable as of late.

Arthur stares at the trio and reluctantly introduces everyone. "Allistor, this is—"

"Wait! Don't tell me! This one here is Matthew?" Allistor asks, pointing at Alfred.

"No, that's—"

"Yup, I'm Matthew, nice to meet you," Alfred answers cheekily.

"Alfred! You're being rude!" Arthur scolds, already embarrassed and flustered.

"He just said his name is Matthew. What's wrong, Arthur? Can't tell yer own laddies apart?"

Arthur shakes his head furiously and turns around, giving up. If lightning struck him right now, it would be preferable to enduring any more of this discussion.

Allistor lets out a bark of laughter and gives Alfred a high-five. "I think we're going to get along, Matthew—and don't give me that look, Arthur! A clean shirt'll do ye if you keep this up. Yer asking for an early grave with all of this fussing."

Alfred makes a puzzled face and asks, "What's wrong with his shirt?"

"Huh? Oh, it's just a saying," Allistor clarifies before switching his attention to his left. "And ye must be Alfred!"

"No, I'm Matthew," Matthew says shyly, cautiously shaking his uncle's hand.

"Matthew Number Two, then," Allistor murmurs with a slick smirk. "A pleasure."

Francis introduces himself next, incredibly polite as he tries to leave a good first impression. He shakes Allistor's hand with a strong, sturdy grip and says something about how nice it is to finally meet the man.

Allistor isn't buying it. "A Frenchman, Arthur? Really?"

Francis frowns and wraps a protective arm around Arthur's shoulders in an open display of affection.

Arthur doesn't want to get into an argument—not when there are so many witnesses and the boys are present—but the only person on this earth who can speak poorly of Francis is Arthur himself. He is _his_ frog. His partner in crime. His silly fool.

But he knows Francis wouldn't appreciate having to bail him out of prison, and so, he ousts all of the emotion out of his mind and says, "Where's the car?"

He can put Allistor in his place later. He has two entire weeks to get his revenge, and that's plenty of time to get back at him for all of his past transgressions. He just has to bide his time.

But this is so typical of him. It's just like the time Allistor conned him into jumping into the lake even though he didn't know how to swim because he said the water was actually made of a magical essence that would allow him to float.

Of course, Patrick had to fish him out of the water no more than two minutes later, and their mother wasn't pleased when they returned to the house completely drenched.

"Right this way," Allistor grunts, breezing past Arthur without any further acknowledgment. It seems he can only be pleasant toward the boys.

"Uncle Allistor, can I sit in the front?" Alfred asks, hands clasped behind his back and face turned up into an angelic smile—Arthur knows better than to fall for that smile.

"Ye don't have to ask. Go on!"

Arthur holds back a wry smirk. So, not even Allistor is immune to the ploys of children. He's not as tough as he thinks he is, and that's made quite apparent when Alfred blasts the radio and rolls down the window as much as it will possibly go and sticks his head out into the rain, letting it wash over his face as Allistor shouts at him to put on his seatbelt and sit in his seat.

It's hard not to laugh, and Arthur presses a fist against his mouth to stay silent. He now knows _precisely_ how he's going to get under Allistor's skin.

He's going to put him on babysitting duty at every given opportunity. That'll teach him.

* * *

Home—it feels odd calling it that now.

The rolling green hills are just like Arthur remembers them being. They stretch for miles and miles, rising and falling into the plains. The grass is dewy from the previous rainstorm. To a person with seasonal allergies, it smells like their worst nightmare. To others, it would probably seem peaceful and quaint.

The cottage hasn't changed either. It's not completely secluded—the nearest neighbors are only a three-minute walk away, and so it isn't as lonely as Arthur once thought it to be. The fence, however, has been painted over, and the front yard is overgrown with plants he doesn't even know the names of anymore. He used to enjoy helping his mother in the garden as a boy, which is something his brothers often teased him over.

He watches the boys race to the front door and lets out a sigh. It's been a long time since he has stood on this cobblestone path. He hasn't been here since he decided to leave home years ago and had to cut off his family ties mostly for security purposes. In the line of work he used to be involved in, keeping up personal relationships was always a risk, and he pledged from the very start of his career never to put his family in danger because of their association with him. Part of him stopped talking to his brothers because of their constant feuding. The bigger, and more truthful, part of him left because he didn't want to see anyone hurt because of him. Better to have a family living at a distance than to have no family at all, he always supposed.

"Are you all right?" Francis suddenly asks him, clutching his arm. "You don't have to go in yet if you're not ready. I can wait out here with you, and we can just talk for a while."

Arthur knows when to feel touched, and now is one of those times. "No, no... I'm fine, really, but thank you."

"This can't be easy for you."

"It's not, but we're already here, and I'm too jetlagged to get on another flight at the moment."

Francis smiles softly, grabs hold of his hand, and squeezes it encouragingly. "You can act like none of this matters to you, but that doesn't mean I'll believe you. You don't have to pretend around me. I know there's more to this than you care to admit, and I know you're scared."

"Not true."

"True," Francis counters with another squeeze. "Everyone will be happy to see you, even if they don't openly show it. You know how the men of the Kirkland family are—always stoic to a fault. They don't think any less of you for what you did. They know why you had to do it."

"Stop spouting nonsense. I've no idea what you're on about," Arthur huffs, face burning with shame. When did he become such an open book?

He lets go of Francis' hand and begins to follow Allistor and the boys up the walkway when the door bursts open, and Dylan, the second youngest of the family, comes, somewhat nervously, out into the open and greets the twins with a timid smile. At once, Matthew takes a liking to him and even goes as far as to initiate a hug with him, stunning everyone.

Dylan receives the hug with a more confident smile and introduces himself briefly before telling the boys to go on inside and grab themselves some treats that are waiting for them on the kitchen counter. Then, he locks eyes with Arthur and frowns, confidence lost again.

Of all of his brothers, Arthur supposes he has generally gotten along with Dylan the best, but he uses that claim loosely because even they have been at each other's necks more than once.

Arthur extends a hand to him, making peace for the time being. Dylan, thankfully, accepts it.

"Hello," Arthur murmurs, and he mentally slaps himself for not being more eloquent.

"Hi."

"How are things going at the paper?"

"I don't work there anymore. I'm taking photos for a different magazine now," Dylan explains without revealing any discernible emotion. He steps aside from the doorway and makes space for him to come in. "And that must be Francis?"

"Ah, well, that's good... And yes," Arthur says through the lump in his throat as Francis strides over and enters the foyer. "This is my…"

His what? Boyfriend? Domestic partner? It seems silly that he can't even come up with a proper title for the man.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to decide on one yet because his mother chooses to arrive at precisely that moment, bright-eyed and looking exactly like Arthur remembers her always being aside from some additional gray hairs. She's still short and slight in frame, the freckles on her cheeks are where they should be, her glasses are perpetually hanging off the tip of her nose, and the vermillion hair Allistor and Patrick inherited from her hasn't lost its shine.

"Arthur, my darling boy!" she cries, rushing over to him and nearly suffocating him as he's seized and wrenched into her arms. "Worried me to the brink of death as always, and did you bother calling me more than twice a year? No! You could have at least given me a hint as to where you were every now and then. I kept you under my wing for twenty-two years and suddenly you disappeared without a word! And now, look at yourself! You have a family of your own."

"M-Mother," Arthur rasps, incredibly embarrassed. "I can't breathe."

"And just think about it, soon you'll be married and—"

"Married?"

"—the boys will be adolescents. Oh, I needn't remind you how difficult you were at that age. Remember when I had to fetch you from the police station because you had that skirmish with Mr. Clark's boy?"

From the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Francis stifling a fit of snickers at his expense. "Mother, please…"

"But all you needed was a firm hand, and see what a strapping man you are today? It's thanks to my blood, sweat, and tears."

Arthur finally manages to remove himself from his mother's arms and clears his throat in humiliation. He safely attaches himself to Francis's side and discreetly jabs an elbow into the man's ribs, forcing him to stop laughing.

"And Francis! It's a pleasure!" Mrs. Kirkland continues, caging Francis in a hug next. "It's wonderful to have you here. Please know you're one of the family now."

"Thank you, Mrs. Kirkland. It is a pleasure for me as well," Francis says with a friendly grin.

"Oh, no, call me Eileen, dear," she insists, brushing some lint off of Francis's shirt sleeve absent-mindedly. "You must all be tired. Arthur, you and Francis can take your old room. Alfred and Matthew will be across the hall. Allistor and Dylan will be in the guest bedroom, and Patrick volunteered to take the couch when he arrives tomorrow morning. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask… Allistor! Step away from that tart! It's for later! Control your ravenous appetite for one day, I beg you!"

Voice echoing somewhere from within the kitchen, Allistor shouts, "Sorry!"

As Mrs. Kirkland goes bustling away to investigate, Arthur and Francis take the chance to slip away and retreat upstairs, and the boys are soon right behind them. They must have been subjected to tight hugs and boundless affection from Mrs. Kirkland as well because their hair is messier than it was when they arrived, and each boy has a faint outline of pink lipstick on their cheeks and foreheads.

After a few trips to Allistor's car and back, they're able to bring all of their luggage upstairs and start to get settled in. They help themselves to some dinner in the kitchen, and once they're satiated, it becomes clear Mrs. Kirkland shouldn't have bothered with giving the twins their own room because, before long, they end up camping in Francis's and Arthur's room anyway, excited and restless from being in a new place.

"So this is where you lived as a kid?" Alfred asks Arthur as he's checking out the view from the window.

"Yes."

"You never told me the story about how you got in trouble with the police," Francis adds in, smiling from ear-to-ear with a devious sparkle in his eyes. "Who was this Mr. Clark?"

Arthur groans. "It's not important."

"No, but it sounds like a fascinating tale."

"Ooooooh, you got arrested?" Alfred asks, just as eager to get some answers. "How did that happen?"

And although Matthew doesn't press him for details, he seems to be all ears as well.

"It's not as interesting as you all think it is. I was simply a troubled teenager, and I did some things I wasn't proud of. I expect you boys to know better than I did," Arthur says, and he refuses to say anything more on the subject. Besides, it's not exactly an appropriate story to tell in front of the children.

"Uncle Allistor said he thinks it's strange that you didn't talk to anyone for so many years and that now you want to reconnect again," Alfred reveals, and he doesn't seem to realize he's sharing information Allistor probably didn't want him to divulge.

Arthur frowns. "Did he now? Well, I couldn't care less what he thinks."

" _Arthur_ ," Francis pleads, trying to remind him to stay civil. "Let's not dwell on it. Some things that are said are better left forgotten."

Alfred gets the clue this time that he should switch topics and does so. "Uncle Dylan said he would take us exploring if you or Papa said it was okay. Can we go?"

"I don't see why not," Francis says, consulting his watch. There's still some light outside. "Just stay with him at all times and come back before it gets too dark, okay?"

"Okay… Come on, Mattie! Let's go!"

And with that, Alfred snatches Matthew's wrist and drags him along, leaving no room for complaint. Arthur wants to scold him for being so rough with his brother, but they're already too far away for his shouting to make any difference.

When they're alone, Francis pecks his lips and says with a wanton growl, "I like bad boys, _mon amour_. How about we go on a walk of our own?"

"I'd like that."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

* * *

Uncle Dylan is a quiet guy. Really, really, quiet. In that way, he reminds Alfred a lot of Mattie, and how you have to hang on to his every word because you don't know when he's going to speak again.

"Why don't you two stand next to that statue over there, and I'll take a picture," he says, taking out the expensive, sleek, and professional-looking camera he carries around in the small black bag slung over his shoulder.

He takes the photo, and when he shows it to them, they have to stare and admire it for a minute.

"It looks so good!" Matthew commends, tilting his head to the side to see it from multiple angles. "You're a photographer?"

"Yes, I've been taking pictures since before I could read."

"What kinds of pictures do you take?"

Uncle Dylan shrugs his shoulders. "All types. It depends on the job I'm asked to do. Sometimes I photograph people. Other times, I take images of landscapes or wildlife."

"Can I take a picture of you now?" Alfred asks, and Uncle Dylan entrusts him with his precious camera without hesitation. Matthew looks on and helps him figure out how to frame the picture, and when they've both agreed on a good position, Alfred adds, "Say 'cheese!'"

"Cheese!" Uncle Dylan shouts with a pearly grin, and they all laugh once the flash goes off.

Uncle Dylan takes the camera back, looks at the picture critically, and decides, "Well, looks like I'm going to have to find a new job because you're both great at this. A little more practice, and you'll be experts."

Matthew looks up at Uncle Dylan like he's an idol. "What's the best picture you ever took?"

"Hmm… Good question. I took a photo from the Swiss Alps once. I have it somewhere. Every time I look at it, I feel like I'm standing on top of the world… But that's enough fun for today. I have to get you both home before Arthur has my head."

"Do you like our dad?" Alfred ventures to ask.

Uncle Dylan chuckles. "I have to. He's my brother."

"But he said you guys fight a lot."

"That's true, but we know when to set our differences aside. A lot has changed over the years, and we all need some time to adjust to it. I'm sure Patrick, Allistor, and Arthur all have their own opinions on this, but my way of looking at it is this—life is short, and I don't want to spend my life fighting with others, especially not with my family. It isn't worth it, and it doesn't help anyone."

Alfred nods, satisfied with the reply. "Sometimes I wonder if I make Dad unhappy."

Uncle Dylan draws his brows together and suddenly turns very serious. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know if he's happy being our dad. I think sometimes he wishes he never adopted us. He talks about how he misses his old life."

"I'm sure that isn't true. Arthur loves you both very, very much. If I know anything about my brother, it's that he'd do anything for you two."

Alfred shakes his head. "I've been trying to fix it. I thought if I acted bad, he'd have a reason to send me away, and he could be happy again like he used to be when he was a spy."

"Have you talked to him about this?"

"No, I can't, because then he'd feel bad and wouldn't send me away like he's supposed to."

Uncle Dylan looks concerned and places a hand against Alfred's back. "Alfred…"

"Please don't tell him."

"But this is all a misunder—"

"Promise you won't."

Uncle Dylan sighs and glances over at Matthew before turning to Alfred again. "Okay, I won't say anything."

And Alfred doesn't notice that his uncle has his fingers crossed behind his back.

* * *

"Ahh, isn't this nice? When was the last time we got to just take a stroll like this without the children?" Francis muses, fingers intertwined with Arthur's as they walk down the dusty path that winds away from the cottage and cuts through the dense undergrowth around them. "I told you this would be good for us. When will you admit I'm always right?"

Arthur snorts derisively and leans against a nearby tree. "I'm knackered. Soon, I'll be walking with a cane."

"You're so dramatic."

"You're insensitive."

Francis rolls his eyes and laughs before pressing Arthur more firmly against the tree and trapping him in a kiss. When he breaks away, he mumbles with a smile, "This feels like every bad romantic comedy film where the young lead characters are out past their curfew. Where's the rain when you need it? That would make it a real movie moment."

"And I'm the bad influence," Arthur says dryly, resting his eyes.

"It's fair to say we're both bad influences… So, Mr. Rebel, what _did_ you do to your neighbor's son before you ended up at the police station?"

It's late, he's tired, his guard is down, and he's feeling sensual, so he smiles a devilish smile and murmurs, "Punched him and broke his nose. I was sixteen."

Francis widens his eyes in amusement. "What did he do to deserve that?"

"He said I wouldn't grow up to be anyone of value to society—I'd just be an alcoholic and leave my children like my father did," Arthur whispers. "So I punched him and nearly broke my own fingers."

"In that case, he deserved it. Did you tell your mother what really happened?"

"Of course not," Arthur says, smirking. "What difference would it have made if I told her anyway? She had enough to worry about as a single mother with four boys to raise. It's a miracle we all survived long enough to make it to adulthood… I worry though… Alfred is keeping things from us, and he may very well be on the same slippery slope I was on back then. Something is likely bothering him, but he believes he can deal with it on his own because he doesn't want to trouble us."

"He's only eleven. We can start worrying when he begins breaking people's noses."

"By then, it may be a little too late. Perhaps what they say is true—we're doomed to make the mistakes of our parents, and I'm going to be a poor father like mine was."

"You could _never_ be a bad father," Francis reassures. "You don't have it in you."

"Really? Then how was I able to ignore my family for years without any qualms? That's exactly what my father did, and before long, I'll do it to you and the boys as well."

"No, you won't. Your situation with your mother and brothers was different. You were trying to protect them."

"They don't see that way."

"But it's the truth," Francis argues. "You're a better man than that, Arthur. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be standing here right now with you."

Arthur sighs and lowers his head, unable to meet Francis's gaze.

"Everything will work out, you'll see."

He opens his mouth to say something and stops suddenly as a chill runs up his spine. Something isn't right, and it's nagging him. Is he being paranoid?

"Arthur? Are you okay?"

"Wait… Do you feel like we're being watched?" Arthur asks, voice low and thin. "Don't move…"

They both stay perfectly still and listen closely for any sign of disturbance, but all they can hear are the rustling leaves of the trees and crickets.

Francis scans the area with his eyes, comes to some sort of conclusion in his head, and says at last, "Let's go."

"Old habits die hard. It was probably nothing," Arthur mumbles once they're far away from the tree they were standing by.

Francis hums in agreement, but he doesn't sound all that convinced. "Probably."


	3. Chapter 3

"I need to talk to you about something."

Arthur rubs a hand over his forehead and yawns as he enters the house with Francis, eyes only half-open. The jetlag is finally catching up with him. "Can it wait until tomorrow, Dylan? I'm exhausted."

His brother makes a face that suggests it can't wait, but says, "Okay. Tomorrow, then. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

And there's nothing better than crawling into bed with Francis while a refreshing breeze flutters over them from the window. The stars and moon are out, and the temperature outside is blessedly mild and not scorching hot like the recent heatwave in Connecticut was.

"We should check on the boys," Arthur suggests as his head finds his pillow.

"I'll do it," Francis offers, and Arthur can hear his footsteps trotting over the creaky wooden floorboards. He's a man with a warm heart, truly, and that's exactly why Arthur worries he'll lose him. The boys like him, he can cook, he always has an answer for all of life's hurdles, and Arthur doesn't have any of those redeeming qualities.

He's already asleep by the time Francis returns and wraps his arms around him, unaware of the caresses.

* * *

"YER ALL BUM AND PARSLEY."

"I AM NOT."

"GET IT OUT OF THE HOUSE."

"COULD YOU KEEP IT DOWN? YOU'RE SCARING HER."

"YE CAN'T KEEP A RAT IN THE HOUSE. IT'S FILTHY."

"SHE'S NO FILTHIER THAN YOU ARE."

Waking up to a screaming match was not on Arthur's agenda. He rolls out of bed, ignoring the protests from Francis, yanks the bedroom door open, and bellows into the hall, "OI! BELT UP, BOTH OF YOU!" Then, he slams the door shut again.

"NO ONE ASKED FOR YOUR OPINION, ARTHUR."

He mutters out a string of barely coherent curses and storms downstairs, ready to enter the fight. He's almost done preparing his attack plan as he reaches the living room and finds a pajama-clad Allistor standing off against Patrick, who has just arrived and hasn't even had the chance to bring his luggage in.

In his eldest brother's arms is a beige and brown striped ferret with beady black eyes and little whiskers. When Arthur dares to get too close, it opens its mouth, bares its tiny, pointed teeth, and has the nerve to hiss at him.

"Bloody hell, it's going to bite," Allistor cautions, pushing Arthur out of the way.

"Joy doesn't bite. She's _trained_ ," Patrick explains, turning his nose up at his brother. He pulls the ferret closer to his chest and pets her head gently. "Isn't that right, my love? Yes, Daddy's right here. He'll protect you from these heartless men."

"Have ye gone mad?" Allistor shouts. "It's a rodent!"

"Speak for yourself," Patrick scoffs, placing the ferret on his shoulder. "She's staying, so you're going to have to accept her."

"When we suggested ye find yerself a woman, Patrick, this is not what we meant."

"It's so cute!" someone squeals from the stairs, forcing a momentary ceasefire. They all crane their necks around and witness Matthew running up to the ferret to touch it, but Arthur pulls him back before he can get too close.

"Don't, Matthew. You don't know where that thing has been," Arthur says, grimacing at the creature. What if it's feral?

"At least my nephew appreciates the beauty of the animal kingdom," Patrick says proudly as he turns toward the child with welcoming cordiality. "Hello, Matthew. I'm Patrick, and this Joy, my ferret."

"She's so pretty! I have a pet, too. She's a goldfish, and her name is Gilly, and nobody else likes her except for me."

"We already have a lot in common, then."

"Blegh, I'll take ye to see some real animals, Matthew Number Two. There's a place for horseback riding not far away—just a quick drive," Allistor says, trying to win over the boy's affection. Of course, he wouldn't want to lose the title of best uncle to Patrick. "Ye'll never want to bother with this rat again."

"I don't know if I agree with that idea. I can't trust you to be alone with my children," Arthur cuts in, raining on everyone's parade. "You're still a child yourself."

"Hah," Allistor snaps, gruff. "Yer sense of humor hasn't changed a bit over the years, little brother. What's the worst thing that could happen?"

"I don't even want to consider the plethora of horrible possibilities."

Matthew juts his bottom lip out and folds his hands behind his back. "But Dad, I've never ridden a horse before. Can I please try?"

He can't say no to Matthew. Doing so would be a crime. Francis is more well-acquainted with handling his innocent smile and puppy-eyes. Chastising Alfred and telling him no is easy and has practically become a habit of his, but when it comes to Matthew, he can't find the heart to deny him anything, and he knows it's going to get him into trouble someday.

"Oh, all right, but you'll have to invite Alfred as well or I'll never hear the end of it."

Matthew grins sweetly—he must be doing it on purpose—and hastily goes about getting dressed and eating breakfast so he can be ready to leave as soon as possible. Arthur has barely gotten out of his slippers and robe before Matthew and Alfred are suddenly hurdling out the door and tugging a bedraggled and still sleepy Allistor along.

And the house becomes significantly quieter as the children leave, but now Arthur becomes awfully aware of the fact that he doesn't have an excuse to avoid Patrick and Dylan anymore. He has to partake in some social stimuli to remind himself that he's still a human being with the ability to make small talk and awkward conversation.

Having never been a morning person, he's the last one to show up at the breakfast table. To his chagrin, his mother has taken the seat next to Francis, and so he has to plonk himself next to Patrick even though it's the last thing he wants to do. The two are going on and on about some kind of muffin recipe that eludes him. He doesn't know anything about cuisine—never has and never will.

"I was thinking we could have a men's night out tonight," Dylan suddenly says, energized and looking like he's ready to run a marathon. It's disgusting how peppy he can be at seven o'clock in the morning without the help of caffeine.

"Ah, a night without Allistor. Sounds lovely. It's like I can hear his angry screams of protest in the distance, but they're too far away for me to be bothered," Patrick jokes, biting into a slice of an orange. "I'll go if Arthur goes."

Arthur crosses his arms, skeptical. "Do tell why my presence is necessary for your attendance."

"I haven't seen my little brothers together now for... How many years has it been? Seven? God, I don't even know how old any of you are anymore. The last birthday I remember celebrating was when Allistor hit the tragic milestone of thirty. He wouldn't shut up about it for months—moaning about how youth is wasted on the young," Patrick replies, brooding. "But, quite honestly, not much has changed since then. Dylan is still single and as quiet as ever. Allistor has yet to get a proper haircut and look professional for once in his adult life. I'm still doing fabulously. Arthur, however, is embarking upon the road of parenthood, and that means he'll soon be in a failing marriage with twenty unpaid bills and angst-ridden teenagers to keep him busy... Oh, I'm only joking. You don't have to look so sour all of the time, you know."

"If this is your way of convincing me to go out tonight, you're doing a poor job," Arthur notes, stabbing at his eggs with his fork.

Mrs. Kirkland and Francis pause their scintillating conversation for a moment to share their opinions.

"Some time together would do wonders for you all," Mrs. Kirkland chimes in.

" _Oui_ , you should all go. I'll stay behind and protect the fort," Francis offers with a lofty smile. "Don't come back too drunk, all right?"

"It's decided, then," Dylan says with a grin. "Arthur, it's time we remind you how to be a bachelor again."

"I don't want to know what that entails," Arthur mumbles back, rubbing his neck, and he wants to yell at Francis when he sees how happy he seems to be with this arrangement. He knew this confrontation would come eventually, and he might as well face it head on now. "But I suppose it'll be bearable without Allistor being there to spoil it."

"That's the spirit, brother!" Patrick says before giving him a rough pat on the back.

* * *

Not to brag, but Allistor is pretty sure he's got this whole "cool and fun" uncle thing in the bag. How hard could it be? All the lads need is some bribing, and they'll all be close mates with one another whether they like it or not. What child doesn't love horses? This was a marvelous idea, and the more he thinks about how much the boys are going to love him for taking them out on this little outing, the giddier he gets.

"When did you learn to ride a horse?"

"Well, Matthew Number Two, I gave it a go at the wee age of five and never looked back," Uncle Allistor says, cruising down the country road at a speed Dad probably wouldn't approve of.

"Was it hard to learn?"

"No, it's in yer blood. All of yer ancestors used to travel on horseback. Ye'll learn in no time."

They pull into a ranch with a giant white fence encircling the perimeter, and the boys hop out of the car, already looking toward the stables and debating on which horse they want to ride. There's a black one with a splotch of white on its snout, and it gives off an aura of boldness that immediately attracts Alfred's attention.

Allistor goes off to speak with the owner of the horses. He's a good friend of his, and they shake hands and catch up on some news around town before they disappear into the stables and come out with two horses—ponies, actually. Best to start the lads off with something easy.

But Alfred hunches his shoulders and frowns when he sees them. "I wanna ride one of the big horses!" he complains, shooting the ponies a critical look. "We're not little kids."

Allistor narrows his eyes at Alfred and stares him down for a long, hard moment. He wants to be tough and grown-up? Fine, let him see just how difficult it is. He'll be whining to get on one of the ponies within minutes. "All right, then, young man. Feelin' brave, are we? Just don't come crying to me when ye get scared later."

"I'm not scared!"

Matthew gives Alfred a worried look, not as adventurous as his twin, and declares, "I'll take the pony."

Allistor nods his head approvingly and helps Matthew up and onto the smaller horse, making sure he's sitting up straight and is snug in the saddle before turning to Alfred and saying, "Are ye sure ye don't want to change yer mind? Last chance."

"I'm sure."

"If Dad finds out, he's going to be angry," Matthew cautions his brother, already picturing what the look on their father's face would be if he were here right now. He'd probably tell Alfred to take the pony or he wouldn't be allowed to ride at all, but Uncle Allistor isn't as experienced in handling Alfred's brashness.

"But Dad's not here, and he doesn't have to know," Alfred counters, smiling when the black horse he was admiring earlier is brought out.

"All right, watch yer step now," Uncle Allistor mutters, lifting Alfred up by a few inches to help him get his foot in the stirrup. "Hang on tight to the reigns, okay?"

As an afterthought, Allistor drops a riding helmet onto each boy's head, and then the owner begins to guide Matthew's pony around the enclosure while Allistor helps Alfred with his horse. They start off at a slow trot, which is fine until Alfred becomes impatient with the pace and tries to get his horse to speed up.

"Oi! Either start behaving or yer getting off," Allistor scolds him, and neither of the boys has ever witnessed him being so stern before.

The shouting, however, manages to startle the horse, and it abruptly bucks backward, tossing Alfred out of the saddle. He tries to catch himself by pulling hard on the reigns, but the force is too strong, and before he can even let out a yelp of surprise, he finds himself colliding with the grass below him.

"Alfred!" both Matthew and Allistor shout at the same time, and Allistor is at the boy's side almost immediately. It's the first time he has dropped his joking demeanor and called Alfred by his real name.

Alfred sniffles fearfully, sits up, and bursts into tears when he sees that one of his hands is bleeding and that his arm has been twisted into an awkward position.

"Alfred? It's going to be all right. We just have to—I can't think if ye keep wailing and crying!"

"Don't yell at him! He's hurt!" Matthew exclaims, getting off his own horse to come to his brother's aid. "You have to call Papa and Dad."

"Okay, okay," Allistor mutters, rigid with tension. How do you stop a child from crying? What do you say? "Err—it's going to be fine, Alfred. Ye didn't fall too hard. It could've been worse."

This does nothing to console the boy, and he just heaves out a heart-wrenching sob while Allistor carefully stands him up and helps him walk to the car.

"J-Just sit down, and I'll call Arthur. Don't panic. It's fine. Stiff upper lip, and keep calm and carry on, and all of those other platitudes, okay? Please, don't cry."

So much for being "best uncle" anytime soon.

* * *

This is Francis's golden chance to win over Mrs. Kirkland's full and utter approval, and no matter how much he tries to convince himself he doesn't need the woman's acceptance in order to take his relationship with Arthur to the next step, he knows everything will be simpler in the long run if he can just be a model candidate and prove he's worthy of being the man's husband.

He flaunts his knitting skills in the living room as Mrs. Kirkland sits in the rocking chair opposite him and patches up a hole in one of Allistor's socks. Eventually, he's going to have to find a way to transition into having a discussion about marriage, but he hasn't figured out how to do that just yet.

Would it be rude to bring up the topic so soon into their stay? He thought maybe he could bring it up as a hypothetical question, but then that might seem like he hasn't made the decision to commit to being with Arthur for the rest of his life, which would be untrue.

He's been waiting for this trip to propose—already has a silver ring hidden in a tiny box inside of his pocket that he's been carrying around for the last week as he debates how to set up the perfect moment to gather up his courage and ask Arthur the most important question of their lives—the question they've both been waiting for an answer to.

"I know what you're going to ask, Francis, and if you're pining for my approval, I can assure you that you already have it," Mrs. Kirkland says out of the blue, sparing him from having to agonize in silence any longer.

"R-Really?" Francis asks, immensely relieved. Now he knows where Arthur gets his perceptiveness as a former agent from. "Do you think he'll say yes? I haven't been able to act natural around him for months because I've been wondering what I'll do if he says it isn't the right time... "

Mrs. Kirkland smiles at him and reaches over to put a hand on his knee.

"He'll say yes."

"I'm not so sure. We've been... aloof around one another recently, and I have the feeling he's having second thoughts."

"If you overthink it, you'll always find a reason to stall."

"You're right. Thank you."

"A word of warning though—he may not be entirely thrilled that you're the one proposing."

Francis chuckles and nods his head. The man's pride is the least of his worries at the moment. "I know. He'll get over it."

* * *

"And do you remember the time you got sent to the headmaster's office for telling the teacher he was instructing the class the wrong way? Mum wasn't sure whether to send you to your room or praise you," Patrick laughs, nudging Dylan in the shoulder with his elbow. "But the greatest feat you ever pulled off as a child was the time you played an angel in your school's rendition of the nativity story for Christmas and had to sing 'Joy to World' in front of the congregation. Your terrible singing haunts me to this day."

"Oh, shut up. At least I never danced in the ballet," Dylan says with a frown, taking a sip of his malt beer.

"That was one time, and it was for extra credit!"

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and says with a mocking smirk, "Why don't you show us how to pirouette, Patrick?"

"Uncultured fools... You wouldn't know art if it hit you in the face."

Dylan and Arthur try to contain their laughter and take another gulp of their drinks instead. They've nominated Patrick as the designated driver for tonight, and so they have to be careful not to upset their eldest brother too much, or they might find themselves walking the five miles back to the cottage.

Patrick, a master of evading uncomfortable conversations, switches subjects with ease. "So, Arthur, I know you don't have the luxury to discuss the type of work you used to be involved in, but is there anything you can tell us about the approximate seven years you were gone for?"

"Honestly, no," Arthur murmurs, looking down at his glass.

"You can't even tell us how you came to meet the boys?"

"No, that's classified information, as far as I'm aware, and even if it isn't any longer, I doubt it would be wise to discuss the work I did for an agency I'm not involved in now."

Patrick lets out a long, upward exhale, causing his bangs to flutter. "All right, Mr. James Bond. I won't ask any more questions, then. Don't want to make any enemies in that regard."

"A wise choice... Speaking of making enemies, I suppose the children have worn Allistor's patience thin by now," Arthur says as he checks the time. He still has a few hours of freedom to look forward to.

"Serves him right," Patrick says. "He was more fun when he was young and easy to manipulate."

Seeing an opening to discuss something that's been plaguing his mind since last night, Dylan jumps in. "Actually, Arthur, there's something I wanted to tell you about the boys. The other day, Alfred, told me—"

But Arthur's phone rings and cuts him off at the worst possible moment. "It's Allistor," he announces, expression instantly turning into one of worry. "Excuse me for a moment."

He rises from the table and steps out of the restaurant/pub to take the call, and Dylan frowns at his retreating form, just as worried, if not more so, that something terrible has happened.

* * *

"There may have been a _minor_ accident."

Arthur's heart lurches as his blood debates whether it should turn to ice or start boiling. "What's happened?"

"It's Alfred…He may have fallen off a horse."

Dread rolls in his stomach. "Please don't tell me you let my child break his spine while he was supposed to be in _your_ care! How did this happen?"

"He didn't break his spine. It's nothing more than a few scrapes."

"Was he wearing a helmet?"

"Of course he was. How daft do you think I am? Don't answer that…I'm taking him back to the house."

With a scornful face, Arthur grips his phone tightly, and says, "I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Arthur, I'm sorry. It was an accident, and I—"

"Stop. Don't say anything. You've done enough."

He hangs up the phone and draws a hand over his creased forehead, reconsidering what possessed him to trust Allistor with watching over the boys. Clearly, his brother is a danger to himself and others, and now Alfred is hurt because of bad judgment on both of their parts.

He hurries back inside to explain the situation to Patrick and Dylan, who're both enraptured in another trip down memory lane when he comes over to break their nostalgia.

"We need to go," he announces, grabbing his coat. "Alfred's been in an accident."

"Wait—what?" Dylan asks, smile faltering.

"There'll be time for questions later. We have to go."

And so, Patrick takes the wheel as planned, cutting their small bachelor party short. It takes no more than fifteen minutes for them to return to the cottage, and the moment they step through the front door, they find Francis fussing over a wailing Alfred in the living room as he tries to disinfect his scrapes and bandage them.

Allistor, for his part, is standing guiltily by the fireplace.

"How bad is it?" Arthur asks as he approaches the couch, surveying the damage for himself.

"Some scratches and a sore arm," Francis replies as Mrs. Kirkland comes in and hands Alfred a bag of frozen vegetables to hold against his left arm.

Arthur clicks his tongue and places a warm hand on Alfred's head. "How did this happen, poppet?"

"Uncle Allistor said I could ride the big horse, a-and then he started yelling, and the horse got scared, and I f-fell!" Alfred says in between gasps of breath, leaving out some important chunks of the story.

Not needing to think twice to know who to blame for all of this, Arthur swings his head around to look at Allistor and scowl at him, "You let an eleven-year-old boy who has no prior experience with horses ride an _adult, fully-grown_ horse?"

Allistor frowns. "He wanted—!"

"When will you finally grow up? You've been acting like a child your entire life. For once, take some responsibility for your actions! This could have been disastrous!" Arthur bellows at him, projecting all of his fear and anger onto the man. "The boy could easily have sustained a spinal injury and been paralyzed, and it's all because you can't take anything seriously—not even for one bleeding day!"

Alfred's crying gets louder as they argue, and Matthew pats his back carefully to calm him.

" _Arthur_ , that's enough," Mrs. Kirkland declares, separating them. "It was an accident."

"An accident that could have left Alfred crippled!"

"Shouting isn't going to reverse what's been done," Mrs. Kirkland says, unwavering. "If you can't act rationally, you can step outside."

Arthur growls something under his breath and makes sure to send another glare in Allistor's direction before cooling down. He watches Francis hand Alfred several tissues to wipe his face, and once again, worry gnaws at his chest. "How do you feel, love?"

"M-My arm hurts," Alfred sobs. "A lot."

"What if he's fractured it?" Patrick asks, leaning in to get a closer look at the arm in question. "It doesn't look pretty."

"If it still hurts him tomorrow, we'll find a doctor," Francis suggests.

Alfred doesn't seem too thrilled with that idea. They had better hope he magically recovers by sunrise, or they'll have to tie his wrists and feet together with rope to get him to a clinic. "No!"

"Yes," Arthur retorts, shutting down the boy's protests. Some vacation this is shaping up to be. Even their fake vacation to Florida three years ago felt more relaxing than this, and no matter how much he tries to persuade himself to unwind, he's been stalked by a sense of foreboding ever since they arrived.

Mrs. Kirkland, thankfully, is able to restore some semblance of order in the best way she knows how to. She steps into the center of the room, straightens her shoulders, and asks, "So, who wants tea?"

For the first time in his entire life, Arthur declines the offer, choosing instead to take Alfred up to his bedroom, where he can keep him safe from any more of Allistor's schemes and make sure he's all right. He fluffs his pillows and has him elevate his arm on a stack of them, all the while assuring him he'll find a way to set everything right again.

"Dad?"

"Yes, poppet?"

"I-It's not Uncle Allistor's fault…I wasn't listening to him."

And sure enough, Arthur can see the pure guilt in the boy's eyes—he's being genuine. Maybe he was a tad too hard on Allistor earlier. Accidents happen, and they can't always be stopped. "Thank you for telling the truth. During dinner, I want you to apologize to your uncle."

"Okay…Are you going to send me away to the foster home with the other kids?"

His breath catches in his throat as he regards the child, wondering who planted such strange thoughts in his mind. "What do you mean? Of course not."

"You don't have to feel bad about it. I'd understand."

"Alfred…What on earth is this about?"

"Nothing."

"I know that's not true."

Alfred fidgets slightly and mumbles, "I know I'm a bad kid."

"You're not bad. You're a good boy. You simply have a nose for trouble," Arthur says softly with what he hopes is a lighthearted smile. Teasingly, he touches the tip of the boy's nose with his index finger.

Alfred considers this for a moment, presses the frozen bag of vegetables more firmly against his arm, and asks, "Can you tell me a story?"

"But you despise my stories."

"You need to practice, if you want to get better," Alfred notes with a smirk—and there's the rebellious, cheeky boy Arthur has come to know and love. He remembers being next to Alfred like this when they first met three years ago, and the child had asked for a story then, too.

"All right. Brace yourself, this is going to be the greatest story ever told."

"I'm ready."

Arthur clears his throat dramatically and says, "Once upon a time, there was a king who owned everything in the world. He had riches, power, status, and success, but the one thing he could never claim for himself was love. He searched years and years for someone who could make him happy and bring him a family, and when he finally found the person whom he wanted to be his queen, he was terribly scared—scared because he had never felt this way about someone before. Time and time again, he would almost drive his potential queen away because he didn't understand how to love the proper way. He didn't have the courage to tell this person how much they meant to him—how much they made him feel wonderful, and so the king became cold and distant because of his own frustration—because he wasn't ready to say that he had felt love for the first time."

He pauses the story and looks down to see Alfred has already dozed off into a nap, leaving him to the silence. Gently, he smooths the boy's hair back and sighs.

Arthur wasn't sure his story had an ending anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

"Boys, it's about time you sit down and work out your differences in a sensible fashion," Mrs. Kirkland says later that night while Alfred and Matthew are playing in the front yard and the rest of the adults are chatting in the kitchen and drinking wine.

Arthur and Allistor look at her as though she's sprouted a second head and immediately narrow their eyes disdainfully at one another. Neither of them understands why this is necessary, especially since both Alfred and Arthur himself begrudgingly apologized to Allistor for treating him unjustly about the whole equestrian-related incident. Shouldn't they be able to move on now?

"Have a seat next to each other on the sofa," their mother insists, clearing a space for each of them before occupying the armchair across the room. "Now, why don't we start by explaining how we feel at the moment? I'll go first as an example—I'm exasperated with the constant quarreling that goes on between the pair of you, and the next time I hear either of you use a colorful word to describe one another, you're both going to be scrubbing the floors of this entire house until you can learn to get along. Arthur, I'd like you to consider the kind of example you've been setting for Alfred and Matthew with your actions. And Allistor, you could make an effort to be more sympathetic in the future."

"I thought we were describing our feelings, not giving a lecture," Arthur grumbles,

"You can go next, Arthur, dear."

"Why can't Allistor go next?"

"This isn't going to work if you refuse to cooperate," Mrs. Kirkland says with a frown.

"I'm not refusing—"

"Yer negative energy is tearing this relationship apart," Allistor jibes, throwing an arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Now do ye see what I have to put up with, Mum?"

"This isn't a relationship. I don't want anything to do with you," Arthur snaps back, shrugging Allistor's arm away.

Allistor feigns a pout. "Fighting words, Arthur. I'm offended."

"You've been terrorizing me since before I could read, so don't play the victim now."

"No, I haven't."

"Yes, you have, and I have years of mental trauma to prove it!"

"Yer overreacting."

"Easy for you to say!"

"Boys—" Mrs. Kirkland tries to step in, only to be ignored.

"You pushed me down the stairs when I was six!"

"No, I didn't! Ye slipped."

"No, I specifically remember feeling your hand shoving against my back!"

"I was trying to catch ye by the collar of yer shirt."

"Lies! Everything you say is a lie."

Allistor scoffs. "Coming from the person who was a spy for most of his adult life. Ye _lived_ a lie."

"That's different. Don't try to misconstrue—"

"I'm not misconstruing anything. Yer the one accusing me—"

"Accusing? I'm merely shedding light on the truth! You hit me in the face with a block of ice one winter, and I couldn't see out of my right eye for an entire week because of the swelling."

"It was an accident! We were having a snowball fight. How was I supposed to know the snow had hardened?"

"I think the difference between snow and ice is quite clear."

Mrs. Kirkland, at wit's end, stands up with her hands resting squarely on her hips, and shouts, "I've heard enough! Obviously, you two aren't capable of having a civil conversation with one another. We're going to have to resolve this some other way."

Arthur and Allistor silently fume at one another for a long moment, breathing hard as they try to repress at least some of their anger. This isn't getting them anywhere. Arthur's almost certain he'll never be able to agree with Allistor on anything, and since Allistor won't even acknowledge that he's been such a terrible brother, how are they supposed to make any progress toward achieving friendship?

To their great horror, a new mediator takes control of the situation—Francis. He, too, has apparently been driven to near madness by their bickering. Without explanation or warning, he storms over to the sofa, catches Arthur's left wrist and Allistor's right one in a single hand, and then clamps a pair of handcuffs on them with an alarming 'click.'

"There," Francis says, immensely smug. "Now, you'll be forced to cooperate."

"Francis!" Arthur croaks, bug-eyed. "What's the meaning of this? Stop playing games and release us."

"It's at times like these that I realize how magnificent it is to be a police officer," Francis smiles, dangling the key to their freedom tauntingly.

"Francis, release us _this_ minute!"

" _Non_ , where would the fun in that be?"

"FRANCIS."

"I think I'm going to go to bed. It's been an exciting day. Have a good night, everyone."

Furious, Arthur tries to get up and storm after the Frenchman, only to be yanked back and weighed down by Allistor, who jerks forward somewhat as a result of the sudden movement.

"Oww!" Allistor complains, using his free hand to rub his sore wrist. "Stop pulling!"

"I wouldn't have to pull if you would walk after me!" Arthur growls, still trying to chase after that key before Francis stows it away somewhere. "Francis! Come back here!"

"Yer going to break my hand, idiot!"

"Shut up!"

"Don't tell me what to do!"

Mrs. Kirkland shifts her gaze between both men, lets out a happy, little sigh, and says, "Well, in that case, I think I'll retire for the night as well."

"Mum!" Arthur and Allistor cry out in unison, watching in disbelief as Mrs. Kirkland makes a show of marching upstairs and leaving them to sulk.

"This can't be happening," Arthur groans, looking at the handcuffs with deep disgust.

"Yer James Bond, can't ye break us out of this somehow?"

Arthur presses his free hand against his temple and mutters, "I can try. We need to find a hairpin."

"Or better yet, just get the key."

"Francis will have hidden it. We can wait until he falls asleep, and then look for it."

"What're we supposed to do until then?"

"Consider the possibility of sawing our arms off?" Arthur suggests darkly, only partially joking.

"This might be a bad time to bring this up…"

"What is it? It can't be much worse than this."

"I need to use the loo."

Arthur grimaces. "I was wrong. It can get worse, apparently."

* * *

Operation 'Outwit Francis' begins around one o'clock in the morning, once the house falls completely silent aside from Allistor's groaning and griping about how he doesn't deserve this kind of physical and psychological torture. He says something about never asking to be born into a family of brothers while Arthur tries his hardest to stay focused on the task at hand. They're going to have to be stealthy, which wouldn't normally be an issue for Arthur, but with a noncompliant accomplice at his side, it's going to be tricky.

"Be quiet," Arthur hisses at Allistor before tugging him down the hall with him and into the room he should have been sharing with Francis tonight. If he knows Francis as well as he thinks he does, then the key should be nearby. The man wouldn't let it out of his sight.

"Are we going to sleep on the couch?" Allistor asks.

"Shhhhh!"

"Oh, right..."

Arthur tiptoes to Francis's slumbering figure and uses his free hand to dig into the pocket of the man's pajamas. His fingers close around a small box—how typical of Francis to keep the key on his person. Couldn't he have been more creative?

Before he can snatch the box away, Francis's eyes snap open, and he sleepily asks, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, go back to sleep," Arthur whispers back, hoping he can lull his partner's groggy mind and avert his attention.

But Francis is cleverer than he gives him credit for. He protectively guards his pocket and the box in question with an unrelenting hand and says, "Nice try, but you won't find the key here. Want a second guess? If I can make a recommendation—you should go to bed rather than waste any more of your time."

Since when has the man been such a light sleeper? Arthur lets his inquisitive hand fall back to his side and shoots Allistor a look of disdain for the umpteenth time that day. This is it then—they have to accept being chained to one another until this hellish nightmare is over. How hard can it be to refrain from verbally or physically assaulting each other long enough to gain their freedom back?

"Fine," Arthur decides, realizing this is not a battle he is likely to win. He sits on the edge of the bed and begins to lie down, intending to sleep beside Francis, but that means Allistor is left to awkwardly stand over them.

"Where do I sleep?" his brother asks.

"That's not any of my concern."

"Move over."

"No, you're not sleeping here with us," Arthur snarls indignantly, taking up as much of the bed as possible so Allistor doesn't get any ideas.

"Then, ye have to sleep in the guestroom with me."

"No."

"Well, then I'm sleeping here. Move over," Allistor repeats, giving him a strong shove.

And before Arthur can protest, he's forced to roll over and ends up being squashed between Francis and Allistor, who are both sound asleep within moments. He glares up at the ceiling for a full fifteen minutes, blood boiling beneath his skin as he fights the urge to scream. It wouldn't be fair to the boys to wake them up at such a late hour.

He counts down from a hundred and compels himself to be calm. It isn't all that different from the training he underwent to learn how to resist torture when he first became an agent. He has to hone his Zen meditation skills.

It must work because, after several minutes, he feels his thoughts start to ebb away from him. His anger falls away from him like sand dropping to the bottom of an hourglass, and his handcuffed hand becomes still before he completely surrenders to sleep.

* * *

 _"We can't go out in public like this!"_

 _"Well, someone needs to take Alfred to the clinic to get his arm examined, and you're the only_ _ones_ _without an agenda for the day."_

Alfred tries to wipe away the sleepiness in his eyes and crawls out of bed, wondering what all the fighting is about this time. If they're talking about him, it can't be good.

Maybe they're actually thinking about sending him to another family because of the kind of pest _he's been, and if that's the case, then he's achieved what he was hoping for._

He tries to stretch out his injured arm and bites back a whine when it twinges with pain. It hurts more than it did yesterday, and to top it off, it's incredibly sore. He's never going to trust a horse again.

 _"They'll think we're disturbed."_

 _"Let them think what they want, mon_ _cher. When you prove to me you have worked out your issues with Allistor—and only then—I will consider giving you the key."_

Alfred wrinkles his nose in confusion. What is Papa talking about? Did something happen?

He steps into the hallway and finds Dad and an annoyed Uncle Allistor standing off against Papa, who is wearing a kitchen apron covered in white flour. Alfred sure hopes he baked something because he's been craving a sweet treat.

"Alfred!" Papa greets him, a smile painted on his face. "How are you feeling? Does your arm feel better?"

Admitting he's still in pain is a surefire way to land him in a doctor's office, which means there's just one solution—lie.

"Yeah, it's a lot better!" he replies with a manufactured grin of his own. He hopes he sounds as convincing and carefree as he thinks he does.

Dad narrows his eyes skeptically and says, "It looks swollen to me."

"It feels better though," he insists, and before Dad can ask a follow-up question, he changes the subject. "Why are you handcuffed to Uncle Allistor?"

"Your father and your uncle were misbehaving, and as a result, they're going to be stuck together until they can bear one another's presence for more than five minutes," Papa clarifies, happy to jump in and gloat about his masterful scheme. "They're going to take you to the clinic."

"Not in this state, we won't," Dad counters, holding up his handcuffed wrist angrily.

Papa puts a hand on his hip and says, "And why not? I don't see a problem. I would hurry if I were you—the clinic is more likely to be crowded later in the day, so you should go early."

Alfred isn't looking forward to this idea either. Going to the clinic is the last thing he wants to do. Isn't having a hurting arm punishment enough for his actions?

"And how exactly do you expect us to drive while handcuffed?" Dad asks Papa.

"You don't have to drive. The clinic is within walking distance."

Hoping he won't be seen, Alfred tries to slip past the trio of men and make a run for the stairs so he can disappear out the front door and hang out in the woods for a while until they forget about this whole clinic ordeal, but as soon as he takes two steps forward, Papa blocks his way.

"Stay with your father and uncle at all times today, Alfred," Papa warns, almost reading his mind.

"Wishful thinking," Dad huffs, clearly in a bad mood. "The boy is a magnet for trouble."

Alfred tucks his hurting arm behind his back and purses his lips really hard to distract himself from how his eyes are stinging and tearing up. Dad is always scolding him, it seems. If he's not yelling, then he's correcting him or telling him to tuck in his shirt or stop fooling around or to use his table manners. Everything he does is wrong in Dad's eyes. He's nothing but trouble—Dad said it himself, and so, why isn't he sending him away yet? It seems like the logical thing to do. If you hate your kid, why pretend to care about them?

Dad doesn't want to be a dad. That's what he said before they got here, so why does he keep trying to be someone he doesn't want be? It doesn't make any sense, and it makes Alfred's head spin. He wants to cry, but he would feel silly if he did. He could scream, but then Dad would yell at him and say to stop screaming.

He could run away for good this time—finally get out of Dad's hair once and for all.

But he likes living with Dad and Papa. He likes how they tuck him in at night even though he's big now and how they fight over who makes the better breakfast in the morning even though it's clearly Papa. He likes hearing Papa sing in the shower. He likes coming home and finding there are snacks waiting for him on the table as he waits for dinner to be ready. He likes when Dad isn't working and has time to go bike riding with him. He likes having family movie nights and drinking hot chocolate in the wintertime with little marshmallows and whipped cream inside. He likes going out for ice cream and watching Papa tend to the garden.

And leaving now would mean he'd have to leave all of those things behind, too.

He sulks through his breakfast that morning, and everyone thinks it's because of how much he doesn't want to go to the clinic, which is only half-true. He thinks about when would be a good time to run away. He should give himself some time to pack his things. He also needs to tell Mattie.

He'll do it tonight—after dinner. That way, he can enjoy his last meal and have some time to think things through. He doesn't know where he's going to go. Maybe to Switzerland. Switzerland seems like a nice place—lots of mountains and snow. Do they have snow in the summer? That'd be weird.

After eating, brushing his teeth, and changing out of his pajamas, he steps outside with Dad and Uncle Allistor, who are talking about something they read in the news today. He walks alongside them, dragging his feet along the path and letting the fine grains of the dirt path that wind away from the house crunch and scrape underneath his sneakers.

"Why the long face, lad?" Uncle Allistor asks.

"Nothing..."

"Are ye afraid of going to the clinic?"

He is—a little bit, anyway. "No."

At that, Dad smiles a tiny smile and says, "It'll be all right."

No, it won't be. Not after tonight. He's going to be on his own—looking for a family again. Always looking. Always waiting for the right people to take him in. Always disappointed or always the one to disappoint them.

The walk goes by quickly since he's lost in thought, and then, they're standing outside a small building with large windows and a sign on the front that reads, _General Medicine_.

He stops walking and stows his arm behind his back again, wary of what kind of suffering awaits inside. He nibbles on his bottom lip and thinks about how maybe he could run away right here and now after all. He'll just dash down the road they came from and turn into a thicket of trees. By the time Dad and Uncle Allistor catch up, he'll be long gone.

"Let's go," Dad says before taking him by the hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

He lets Dad lead him into the building, and the linoleum flooring of the lobby looks all polished and shiny under the bright lights. Dad takes him right up to the front desk, where a pleasant woman in colorful, flowery scrubs is sitting in a swivel chair.

"What can I do for you gentlemen today?" she asks. If she notices Dad and Uncle Allistor are handcuffed, she doesn't act like she does.

Dad explains what happened, recalling Alfred's unfortunate run in with the horse that got spooked, and then they're told to take a seat and wait for a doctor.

There are other children in the waiting room ranging from tiny babies cocooned in blankets to older teenagers. No one looks happy to be there, and when one of the babies starts crying, Alfred has to wince at how shrill and loud they are.

"Never a dull moment here, huh?" Uncle Allistor asks to no one in particular.

Dad sighs and puts the hand that isn't handcuffed on Alfred's right shoulder. "Are you all right, my boy?"

Alfred shrugs. He doesn't want Dad to be nice to him now, not when he's not going to be around much longer. "Yeah, I'm fine."

They spend forty-five minutes just sitting around. Dad looks through a few magazines, chats about something with Uncle Allistor for a bit, and then, Alfred's name gets called by the same woman they signed in with.

Alfred gets up, makes Dad and Uncle Allistor walk ahead of him, and lowers his head broodingly as he steps into a blue exam room. The receptionist takes his height and weight, and then they're told to wait again for a little longer.

The paper on the exam table crackles as he sits on it, and he waves his feet back and forth impatiently, thinking how he should probably pack some water and cookies with him before he runs away so he doesn't get hungry during the journey.

"Good morning!" the doctor says jubilantly as she comes in, and she doesn't look nearly as scary as Alfred imagined. She raises her brows at Dad and Uncle Allistor and flashes them a glowing grin, acknowledging how strange they look without comment. Then, she turns to Alfred and shakes his good hand gently. "Hello, Alfred, it's a pleasure to meet you. What's going on today?"

"I fell off a horse," Alfred explains bluntly, holding out his arm for her to see.

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry to hear that. Can you hold both of your arms out side-by-side? Yes, just like that... Flex your arm and touch your shoulder with your fingers," the doctor instructs, and when Alfred does as he is asked, she turns to Dad and says, "His range of motion is fine, and I see no reason to suspect a fracture. I'd put some ice on the injury and wrap it in an elastic bandage until the swelling goes down. It should get better on its own."

All of that waiting just for that? Alfred can't help but feel a little cheated as he slides off of the exam table and gets told he's free to go. He could've just enjoyed his last day in the house instead of wasting it away in a waiting room. No fair. Dad and Uncle Allistor complain about it, too, but then they all head out and don't dwell on it. They've got a long walk back, and Alfred has a lot of things to do before he can run away.

"Wait!" Dad suddenly interjects sharply, causing them all to stop in their tracks. He spins around and narrows his eyes in the direction of the clinic. "I swear I..."

"What is it?" Uncle Allistor asks.

"I... I thought I saw someone from before as we were leaving."

"Before what?"

"It's nothing. Just my imagination running wild, I'm sure," Dad insists, beginning to walk again.

Everything's just fine.

* * *

"Let's go out," Francis says to Arthur that evening, one hand in his pocket as he touches the small, velvety box that's been taunting him lately. What is he waiting for? The right moment is never going to present itself unless he goes chasing after it. "I'll free you from Allistor. You two haven't killed each other, and that's a big accomplishment."

"Finally!" Allistor cries out happily, and as promised, Francis goes off for a moment and returns with the promised key.

"Did you feel as though you've bonded through this experience?" Francis asks them.

"No," they say in unison, but he liberates them anyway, and Arthur immediately rubs at the tender, red skin left behind from the steel chafing against his skin.

"Well, I think you're both making progress... Now, Arthur, can I steal you for a moment?"

Arthur furrows his brows. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I just want to talk."

"Okay."

While Allistor celebrates his independence, Francis sweeps Arthur out the door and locks arms with him, heart pounding. He takes him out past the garden and the driveway, away from the road, and down the row of buzzing street lamps lighting up the way to a small well that probably is no longer functional but still serves to look scenic.

"Francis? What's going on?"

"Nothing. Can't I spend time with you?"

"You sound like Alfred now," Arthur frowns. "And of course you can spend time with me. You just look... concerned."

"I have something I want to say, but I'm not sure how to say it."

"Oh... Don't tell me it's what I think it is."

Francis is pretty sure his heart falls out of his chest and into the grass. "What do you think it is?"

"We can make this work... At least for the boys."

"Arthur, what are you talking about?"

"Y-You're not breaking up with me?"

"What?" Francis chokes out, ridiculously confused. "No, why would I be breaking up with you? Are you breaking up with me?"

"No, no! Of course not, I just thought when you said we needed to talk... We've been distant from one another lately and things aren't the way they used to be since we've had the boys, and—"

"Arthur, I love you. Why would I leave you? Just because sometimes things are difficult or we don't get to have as much time for one another doesn't change my feelings for you. In fact, I—"

Francis reaches into his pocket for the velvet box and is a microsecond away from getting down on one knee, when suddenly, a horrible scream rips through the air and startles them both.

They both feel their blood turn cold and the color drain from their faces.

" _Mathieu!_ " Francis shouts, and both he and Arthur start sprinting in the direction of the sound.

* * *

"Mattie, I've gotta tell you something important."

"Hang on... Uncle Patrick? Can I take Joy for a walk around the garden?"

Uncle Patrick raises his eyes from his book, peers at them over the rim of his reading glasses, and says, "Okay, take Alfred with you and don't go off too far, okay? Her leash is hanging on the coatrack."

Matthew nods and takes the little red leash off of its hook before slipping the attached harness carefully over the ferret's neck and belly. She seems excited to go sniffing around the property, and Matthew is happy to oblige as Alfred trots after him.

Once they're outside, Alfred tries to initiate the difficult and heartfelt conversation he wants to have again. "Mattie, I'm running away."

"What?" Matthew asks as he watches Joy scurry over the nearby flowerbeds. He doesn't seem as worried about Alfred's plans as Alfred hoped he would be. It just proves no one really cares about him anymore—he's just a bother. "Why do you wanna run away?"

"Because Dad doesn't like me, and all I do is make him angry."

"He wouldn't be angry if you'd just do what he tells you to do."

"You don't understand."

"Whatever," Matthew says, seemingly giving up. "Run away, then. Bet you're too scared to do it anyway."

"Am not!"

"Are, too! You'll be crying to come back home as soon as you leave."

"No, I won't!"

"Yeah, you will... Joy?" Matthew stops to look down at where the Uncle Patrick's ferret should be, only to realize that she's gotten loose and has wiggled out of her harness. "Joy!"

Joy goes scampering down the hillside, and Matthew dashes after her into the darkness.

"Matt! Wait! Stop!" Alfred shouts after him, but Matthew is too far ahead to hear.

Just a little closer... Almost got her! He weaves his way through the trees, and when Joy slows down for a second, he's able to snatch her up and into his arms.

"Naughty ferret!" he says, waggling a finger at her. He keeps a tight hold on her to make sure she doesn't get away again and starts to head back to the house...

Except he then realizes he's not sure _how_ to get back to the house. He turns around in a full circle and all he can see are trees and ominous darkness.

"Alfred?" he asks fearfully, hoping his brother followed him. He didn't. "Anybody?"

"I'm here, darling," someone says.

He doesn't like the sound of that voice... "Hello?"

A pair of arms wrap around his waist, and Matthew screams as loud as he dares, causing Joy to quiver in his hold.

The person holding him laughs—it's a woman. "Oh, sweetheart. That's right... Scream again. Make sure the whole town hears you now."

Matthew continues his cries for help and tries to tear himself away from the woman. Oddly enough, she releases him, and right as he's recovering from his shock, he sees Dad running toward him.

"Matthew! Are you all right? What happened?" Dad asks, breathing hard. "Are you hurt?"

"T-There was a lady," Matthew explains hoarsely.

"What lady?"

Matthew turns his head from side-to-side to look for the woman. She's gone...

"Francis? Francis! He's over here! Damn, he can't hear us. I told him not to split up."

That's when Matthew sees the woman emerge from behind one of the trees. He's able to get a good look at her this time—long, silvery blonde hair, a ghostly face...

"Dad! Behind you!"

Dad raises an eyebrow and tries to twist around to look, but then the woman snakes an arm around Dad's neck and traps him in a choke hold. With her other hand, she presses some kind of cloth against his mouth.

Dad strains to break free and holds his breath. He lets out a muffled grunt and jabs an elbow into the woman's ribs, but she doesn't let go. Then, he tries to pry her arms off of him, but she just squeezes his neck more tightly so that his face turns red.

"Come on, now. Don't you want to take a nice, deep breath? All you have to do is relax," the woman coaxes him. "Don't fight it."

"Let go!" Matthew yells at the woman. He tries to pull Dad away from her—one hand on Dad's shirt while the other is still clutching Joy, but it's no use. He's not strong.

Dad's eyes are watering, and in a last attempt to free himself, he throws himself backward and knocks both himself and the woman to the ground. She's forced to break their fall but still has her ironclad grip on him. In desperation, Dad has no choice but to try to take a painful breath, and as he does, his body goes limp, and his head lolls back against the grass.

"Dad!" Matthew screeches. He tries to run to his aid, but the woman swiftly stands up and presses the cloth to his face this time. He gets really sleepy, and before he can understand what's going on, he's unconscious.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! Here's the grand finale of this story! I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

Fog. Dense fog. His head aches—maybe. Everything is blurry, and it hurts to look at one spot for too long, like staring at the sun.

 _You've been drugged_ , the still rational part of his brain tells him. Everything else is numb and detached.

 _Focus_. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again, and takes a look at his surroundings. That's when he realizes he's been standing up this whole time, though not voluntarily. His hands are restrained by some sort of thick straps hanging on the wall above his head, and there's a belt-like mechanism around his waist to keep him from wriggling and struggling.

His eyes, nose, and mouth burn like he had too much to drink and then proceeded to swallow a bunch of chlorinated water from a swimming pool.

"You're awake," someone murmurs, and their voice echoes in his ears, making it hard to understand.

"Getting you here wasn't easy, that's for sure. My brother warned me you'd put up a fight. I admire that. It's still stupid, but I admire it. Does that make sense?"

Arthur groans. _Snap out of it. Find Matthew._

"What did—?" he can't finish the question. It escapes him, and he merely groans again and wishes he could have some water to drown all of the burning away.

"Hah. See how nice it is when you're quiet? I like the silence. Helps me think. How about you, Arthur? Do you like the silence? Does it bring you comfort?"

He bites his tongue as hard as he can without causing himself to bleed, hoping to elicit some kind of pain or sensory awareness from his body.

"Don't worry. Even if you don't like it, you'll learn to get used to it. We're just getting started."

"Matth—Matthew," he garbles.

"What's that? Are you talking about your boy? He's fine—taking a nap. My grievances aren't with him Arthur. I wouldn't hurt an innocent child. I'm afraid you won't be seeing him again though."

He pulls against his restraints helplessly.

"Do you know what it's like to have to suffer every day of your life, Arthur? I'm sure you've been tortured before, considering the places you've been, but imagine that for _every single day_ until you die. That's what you did to my brother. That's what you did to Ivan. He's suffering because of you."

He tries not to make any noise—he won't give her the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. She must be talking about Ivan Braginski, a criminal mastermind who used to be the head of a cyberwar and would often capture NATO forces to torture them for pleasure. It's been three years since Braginski was arrested, and Arthur doesn't care to know where he's being held or what's happened to him. He's going to be in prison for the rest of his life.

"And you're going to know what that feels like. Your death will be slow—anything but clean and merciful."

So, he's going to be tortured, then. Lovely. He tries to recall everything he's been trained to know about maintaining control over one's mind at times like these, but his judgment is already compromised from whatever this woman has drugged him with.

 _Stay calm,_ he coaches himself.

The room is white except for the blue tarp on the ground, and he has a pretty good idea of what is going to be done with him before the woman takes any further action. She's going to injure him slowly—limb by limb, cut by cut. Until he either bleeds to death or one of the injuries causes a fatal complication.

Sure enough, the woman twists one of his wrists while it's still in its restraint, and snaps it effortlessly. A small sob-like noise leaves his dry throat against his will as the exploding pain registers in his mind a few seconds after it actually happens.

He considers how feasible it would be to break out of the restraints now that his wrist is broken. Could he still pick and struggle his way out?

"That was good. Very good, Arthur. I'm Natalya, by the way. Sorry for not introducing myself sooner."

His shoulder is next. One strong shove and it gets dislocated.

 _Don't make a sound._

"You know what? Maybe it's a little _too_ quiet in here. I know how to fix that."

Natalya disappears from view as she steps through a doorway, and the entire time, Arthur is making sure to clear his mind and meditate on his breathing to ensure the pain doesn't blind him and make him do something idiotic that'll get him killed.

"Here we go."

Natalya returns with Matthew, who is awake and standing on his own despite how disoriented and frightened he looks. He still has that blasted ferret in his arms.

"Dad!" Matthew wails, trying to run up to him, but Natalya holds him back.

"Say 'goodbye' to him, Matthew. Say 'goodbye' like a good boy."

Matthew cries loudly and messily, tears streaming down every possible square centimeter of his face. "Let us go!"

"Give me the ferret."

"No!"

"I said to give it. Don't upset me, Matthew."

"No!" Matthew shrieks as Natalya tries to wrench the animal from his hands.

Joy, for her part, hisses at Natalya and bites her on the thumb when she picks her up.

"Agh!" she curses, dropping the rodent.

Matthew takes the chance to run all the way to Arthur and undoes the restraint around his waist when he realizes he can't reach the ones holding his hands together. Clever boy.

Natalya recovers and tries to nab Matthew away from Arthur's side, but before she can make her move, Arthur braces himself and then swings his lower body forward with all of his might, kicking her backward. His wrist and shoulder don't appreciate the extra stress, but he can worry about that later.

While Natalya is stumbling, Arthur sluggishly gets his body to turn around, and Matthew, fortunately, understands what he's attempting to do. Without delay, the boy jumps onto his back and climbs up to his shoulders to be closer to the restraints. He yanks them loose, and Arthur musters all of his willpower to fight against his drugged condition now that he's free.

"Stand behind me," he orders Matthew, slurring slightly, but the boy understands and hides behind his back while Natalya finally rights herself again.

She pulls out a knife and tries to drive it into Arthur's chest, but he grabs her forearm, twists it like she twisted his wrist earlier, and snatches the knife out of her hand, making it look effortless.

He's still got it. Granted, he's a little rusty, but his body still remembers exactly what to do even after a three-year break.

Natalya blinks slowly at him, stunned at having been disarmed so easily. She doesn't dare to move—it's as though she's expecting Arthur to kill her and has accepted her fate.

Having no intention of doing such a thing, even after all this woman has done, Arthur hooks an ankle behind her foot and sends her falling to the ground face-down. Then, he sharply takes her hands and secures them behind her back.

"You're under arrest," Arthur grunts, fighting against the wooziness floating in his head. He really wishes he had those handcuffs Francis used on him and Allistor right about now.

He can feel the adrenaline rush he was acting on earlier start to dissipate and leave his weary muscles, and with an intensified sense of alarm, he realizes the strength of his grip is faltering. His hands start to quiver against his will, and Natalya notices because within seconds, she uses her own strength to flip them over, reversing their roles. Now she's pinning him to the ground, and shoving his arms above his head.

"Not so tough, huh?" she asks condescendingly, flashing her pearly teeth at him. She takes back her knife from him, and says, "You can die right here and now, then."

"Dad!"

"Move any closer, and I'll kill him, Matthew," Natalya hisses, glaring at the boy.

"Don't move, Matthew! It's all right," he says hoarsely, and he can hear the sound of his heart pounding—can practically feel the rhythmic thumping climb up to his throat.

He feels the cold stainless-steel of the knife graze at the skin of his neck, and his eyes scan his surroundings, searching for anything that might give him a chance at survival.

"You're such a sweet boy. It's unfortunate you have such an awful father. Look, Matthew, he can't even win in a fight against a woman like myself. He's useless. He's failed you. Because of him, you're going to suffer. That's the thing about people...They ruin everything. They say they love you, but then they can't act on it. All talk, no actions," Natalya murmurs in a soft tone that gets sharper the longer she speaks. "You'll learn soon enough, Matthew, that the only one you can rely on is yourself."

Arthur waits for the pain, but a glass bottle goes flying through the air and just misses Natalya's head as it smashes against the metal counter a few inches away.

Natalya jumps back in surprise and momentarily releases Arthur, allowing him to slip away again. He staggers to his feet at the same time Natalya does and makes a move to disarm her again, except she grabs Matthew and the squealing ferret. She aims the end of the knife at Matthew's chest.

Without thinking twice, Arthur pushes Matthew back and stands in front of him. A moment later, the knife punctures his abdomen, and Arthur falls to his knees, resisting the urge to pull the knife out even though his body is screaming at him to do so.

 _If you pull it out, you'll bleed to death_ , he mentally warns himself, and Matthew is screaming at him, but he can no longer hear it. Perhaps it's the shock that leaves him momentarily deaf. He just stares down at the knife, eyes blank, and as several more seconds pass, he collapses on his side while Matthew shakes his shoulder to get him to move and say something.

" _Get away from the door_!"

" _Grab the boy!"_

" _Mathieu!"_

Is this a dream? What's happening? Everything is fog again. He can hear snippets of screaming and shouting, and then bodies are running in like an army…God, he's in so much pain…

" _Arthur!"_

He lets out a short cough and looks up as someone cradles his head. Why does Allistor have one and a half heads?

"Errgh…"

"Arthur, get up. Oi! Come now…"

"Francis, he doesn't look good."

"Don't move him…Arthur? Arthur, _mon amour_? Look at me. It's okay, darling. Just hang on, okay? _Mathieu_ is just fine. Keep your eyes open. Help is coming…No, no, dear, you have to stay awake."

What took him so bloody long? Incompetent frog.

A tear falls from Francis's chin and splashes against his cheek. If Arthur had the strength for it, he'd roll his eyes. Does the silly git really think he's going to let himself die like this? Idiot.

"Will you marry me?" the stupid numpty has the nerve to ask right then and there. He can't do anything properly, can he?

Arthur has every reason to tell him "no," at the moment, but he doesn't because that would break the frog's heart, and with the way he's looking down at him with those shimmering blue eyes, he knows there's only one answer to the question. "Y-Yes."

Francis shakes with the force of a sob and slips a ring onto Arthur's pale, clammy hand. "I love you."

Arthur almost laughs, but his wound erupts with enough pain that it stills him. "Luh…Ughh…Luhv—"

"Shh, don't speak."

Bastard. What right does he have to cut off his words of affection just like that? He should take the ring off his finger and throw it across the room this very second.

He sighs, closes his eyes, and is too far adrift in unconsciousness to hear Francis shout at him to wake up.

* * *

Six hours and still no news—Francis is ready to storm onto the unit and demand to know what's going on. What on earth could be taking the hospital staff so long to decide whether or not his fiancé is going to be all right?

 _There was so much blood…_

He attempts to shake the thought out of his mind and hugs Matthew and Alfred harder, wanting to assure them that Arthur will be all right but not knowing for sure whether or not that'd be wise.

The whole family is gathered in the waiting area—Dylan, Allistor, Patrick, the boys, himself, and even Joy (except she's hidden in Patrick's bag because animals are strictly prohibited on the premises.

"It's my fault," Matthew hiccups. "It's because I took Joy out for a walk."

"No one foresaw this," Patrick tries to comfort him. He motions for Matthew to come and sit on his lap, and the boy does, sobbing into his uncle's shirt. "It's okay...There's a good lad."

Everyone is uneasy—Alfred is just as distraught as Matthew, if not more so, Allistor is pacing back and forth between the rows of chairs, Dylan keeps tapping his foot, and Mrs. Kirkland is constantly wiping at her red eyes.

And Francis can't help but blame himself as well. If he had listened to Arthur and didn't split up while searching for Matthew, maybe they wouldn't be in this position right now. Maybe he would have been able to prevent the attack, but instead, they're camping outside of this ICU, mortified. A series of tiny mistakes could have nearly cost Arthur his life.

It's a blessing Matthew is unharmed.

Just as Francis is about to suggest someone should take the boys back to the house—they've been up all night, and it's nearly dawn now—a nurse comes over to speak to them.

"Okay, everyone, two visitors at a time," she says with a gentle smile, holding open the door to the unit.

"Is Arthur all right?" Francis asks. His entire body is shaking like a leaf.

"He's stable and awake. His doctor will be in soon to answer any specific questions and to give an estimate as to when he can expect to be discharged. He's on quite a bit of pain medication, so he may be lethargic."

Naturally, Francis volunteers to go in first, and it's agreed upon that he should see Arthur one-to-one before anyone else goes in.

Not wasting another moment, Francis follows the nurse down the hall and over to Arthur's room, where the man is hooked up to a cardiac monitor and has a nasal cannula giving him supplemental oxygen. There's a fresh dressing covering his wound and the accompanying stitches he received. His arm is in a sling, and there's a cast stretching from his hand to the middle of forearm, but otherwise, he seems to be fine.

"He had a blood transfusion, and we're giving him pain medication, fluids, and antibiotics to prevent an infection from developing," the nurse explains as Arthur slowly rolls his head to the side and leers at Francis with glazed eyes.

"Thank you… _Mon coeur_ , how are you feeling?" Francis whispers as he takes up the chair by the bedside.

Arthur clears his throat roughly and murmurs, "Terrible—not unlike when Allistor pushed me down the stairs as a child."

Francis snorts with laughter and is flooded with relief. "I wish you would get over that."

"I will when he apologizes. Can you answer something for me?"

"Of course, what do you want to know?"

Arthur frowns and draws his brows into a straight line. "Why is it that I'm the one who always gets maimed during times like these while you walk away without a single scratch?"

"Ahh, that's easy—I'm cautious."

"And I'm not?"

"Of course not," Francis teases. "You know, for someone who always complains about Alfred's nose for trouble, you forget that you have one as well."

Arthur scoffs and fiddles with the blanket covering his waist, neither confirming nor denying Francis's claims. "How are the boys doing?"

"Fine, but they're worried sick."

"Even Alfred?" Arthur asks, not believing his ears.

"Especially Alfred. That boy is very attached to you, in case you haven't noticed."

"Lately, I haven't been sure…" Arthur mumbles, looking down at his left hand before realization flashes over his face. "You proposed to me while I was semi-conscious! You're such an idiot! Besides, who gave you the right to be the one to propose? Maybe I wanted to propose!"

"You can propose to me, too, if you'd like," Francis offers, an amused smile on his lips.

"No, forget it, it's ruined."

"So, you won't marry me, then?"

"Of course I'll marry you, insufferable frog!" Arthur growls, and the cardiac monitor reflects his quickening pulse. "What kind of question is that?"

"I can see you're still not in your not fully yourself yet. How about I give everyone else a chance to see you? They're waiting impatiently."

"Oh, no."

"Don't sound so excited. Who should I send in first?"

"Anyone but Allistor," Arthur huffs.

"Allistor it is, then."

* * *

He'll never forgive Francis for this—for subjecting him to his brother's unnecessary company. As soon as Allistor walks through that door, he's going to give him an earful and tell him to kindly leave. He's the last person he wants to see after—

"Arthur? Oh, yer okay," Allistor says breathlessly as he enters, eyes wide with concern. Alfred is trotting right behind him. "Careful now, Alfred—yer father's a little broken 'round the edges."

Arthur rolls his eyes and then smiles as Alfred sits next to him on the bed. They take one another's uninjured hands, and Arthur presses the boy's head to rest against his chest. "Hello, there…I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," Alfred sniffles with tearstained cheeks. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"No, not at all."

"Good…I'm sorry, Dad."

Arthur frowns. "Sorry for what?"

"I tried to make things better…I tried to give you a reason to send me away so you didn't have to be a dad and could be happy again."

Arthur waits for his painkiller-addled mind to comprehend what's going on, and still, he's confused. He looks to Allistor for maybe a better explanation, but the man seems just as lost as he is. "You…You wanted to be sent away?"

"Yeah. Remember you told me you weren't sure if you wanted to be a dad? And you don't like your job as a cop. You want to go back to being a spy, but you can't 'cause you have me and Mattie. I thought if at least I was gone, you would be able to live the life you wanted again," Alfred explains tearfully. "But I did a bad job 'cause all I did was make you even angrier and more sad. I'm sorry."

Arthur lets everything sink in, and when he thinks he finally has some sort of understanding of the situation, he rests his chin atop Alfred's head and sighs. "I love you, Alfred. I'm not sending you away anywhere—and you couldn't do anything to change that. I _want_ to be a father. I want to be _your_ father."

"Really?"

"Really," Arthur reaffirms, squeezing the boy tight. "Don't ever think for a moment that I'd want you out of my life. You and your brother are very, very important to me."

After being set at ease by those words, it only takes a few more minutes for Alfred to fall asleep. Has he been up all night? Poor boy.

"The boy is lucky to have ye," Allistor suddenly says when Alfred succumbs to a light sleep. "I always wondered what it would have been like to have had a father who cared for us, but yer lads will never have to wonder."

It is the nicest thing Allistor has said to him in years, and the moment is not lost on Arthur.

"Thank you for saying that."

"Sure… How are ye feeling?"

"Tired and sore."

"Oh…Congratulations, by the way. Everyone already knows about the proposal. Do ye know when ye'll have the wedding?"

Arthur smirks dryly and says, "Preferably when I can move without being in excruciating pain."

"Right…"

"Would you do me a favor and make sure the boys get home safely?"

"Of course. Want me to take this laddie off yer hands now?"

"Yes, he needs to get a night of sleep in his own bed."

With that, Allistor reaches down and scoops Alfred into his arms. He's heavy, but Allistor is more than strong enough to manage. He makes his way to the door and murmurs, "I hope…I can be a good uncle to them, at least."

"You already are," Arthur says, and he knows it's not the pain meds that are talking.

Matthew and Patrick are the next ones to come in. Patrick, as expected, fusses and frets over him in the passive-aggressive way only eldest brothers are capable of. He assesses all of Arthur's injuries, adjusts the height of the bed for him so he can rest easier, puts something soothing on TV, and then goes to great lengths to assure Matthew that all of this wasn't his fault.

"Matthew, you aren't responsible in any way, shape, or form," Arthur tells the boy firmly, trying to get him to listen and take the message to heart. "Come here."

He tries to reach out to the boy for a hug, but Matthew is convinced that if he comes too close, Arthur will shatter.

"I'm perfectly all right. You don't have to be so afraid," Arthur insists, and Matthew finally gives in and comes closer to him. "You were very brave back there."

"I was?"

"Yes. You did everything you could to fight back, even though you were scared."

"But I couldn't save you."

"I'm alive and talking to you, aren't I? I'd consider that a success…And, as much as it pains me to say this, I have to thank that blasted ferret as well."

Patrick grins from the other end of the hospital room and lets Joy pop her head out of his knapsack. "She says you're welcome."

Arthur chuckles and Matthew joins in, and soon enough, they all feel a little better about the situation.

Finally, the last duo of the group comes meandering in—his mother and Dylan. Mrs. Kirkland reacts as any mother would, given the circumstances. She practically throws herself at Arthur, incredibly relieved. She promises to bake him some of his favorite scones, and although Natalya is in custody, she swears to him that if she ever stirs up any more trouble, she will hunt her down and take matters into her own hands.

"Mum, I'm all right."

"That's what you always say!" she scolds him, sticking an extra pillow under his head. "You could have been killed! This wasn't some small scrape!"

Fortunately, Dylan steps in and manages to get her to calm down somewhat. "This isn't the first time Arthur has been injured, Mum. He'll be fine. He worked as a spy, remember? He's practically immune to this kind of pain."

Well, that's not true, but if it'll set his mother's mind at ease, then so be it.

"Also, congratulations! Can I help plan the wedding?" Dylan asks, and that's when Mrs. Kirkland stops brooding over Arthur's health and redirects her emotions to the future.

"Yes, yes, congratulations are in order! Oh, it'll be lovely—I already know who we should contact for catering, and you'll have to get married here, of course. There's no way you can convince me to get on a plane, let alone on a plane going all the way across the Atlantic."

Arthur tries not to groan. These two can go on for days about wedding plans, and so, he takes advantage of his injuries, and says, "I'm looking forward to hearing all of your ideas, but I really am tired at the moment, and I—"

"Oh, why didn't you say something sooner? Go to sleep, my dear. We can talk about all of this once you're well again," his mother fusses, shooing Dylan out of the room. "We'll be back soon."

"Goodbye for now," Arthur says with a growing smile. His family is strange and uncustomary, that's certain, but he doesn't think he'd replace them for anything in the world.

They're his.

* * *

After three days in the hospital, Arthur is, at last, free to go. The whole family makes an effort to get him comfortable in the car, and he gets driven back to the cottage, where he spends the following week lounging about and being pampered against his will. He's not allowed to do a single thing for himself until everyone deems his stab-wound has healed sufficiently enough for him to wander about and go back to his usual routine.

Sitting around at long intervals serves to make him homesick. He wants to go back to their house in Connecticut, but with the wedding plans still being worked out in full force, he doesn't know how to wrench himself out of the cottage. He expresses his feelings to Francis one night—grieves about how much he hates elaborate planning and nitpicky decision-making—and his husband-to-be tilts his head playfully to the side, and says, "Well, then, let's just get married tomorrow."

Arthur allows himself to be stunned for a good moment before recovering. "Are you being serious?"

" _Oui_ , we don't need to have a fancy wedding for me to be happy, Arthur. I just want to spend the rest of my life with you."

 _Damn it, Francis can be so surprising and sappy at times._

"Okay, let's get married tomorrow, although my mother and Dylan will be devastated."

"They'll forgive us."

And so, that's exactly what they do. In the morning, they get their official paperwork together, and they celebrate right in the front yard with champagne, blueberry scones, and confetti. It's more than enough to make them both happy. They leave the boys with Mrs. Kirkland and Arthur's brothers for a few days, and then they go off on an impromptu honeymoon to Paris, crossing the English Channel into France, and Arthur doesn't complain nearly as much as Francis expected he might at the arrangement.

"Want to go on one last mission?" Francis asks him on the last night of their stay.

"What mission?"

Francis smiles coyly and purrs against Arthur's neck, "Let's go dancing and stay up all night like we used to so we can watch the sunrise together."

 _So sappy_.

Arthur shakes his head but grabs Francis's hand and drags him out the door of their hotel room with determination in his eyes. "Let's go, then. Are you sure you can keep up at your age?"

"Oh, don't start."

"Too late, I already have."

Francis laughs and pulls him back, locking them in a kiss before they continue onward. "Let's see what you can do, Kirkland."

"You know, Bonnefoy, this might be my greatest mission yet, so prepare yourself."

"You're on. I was always the better agent."

"Hah, you wish."

"I'm also the better dancer."

"Oh, yeah? I guess we'll just have to settle this once and for all."

They've still got it.


End file.
